


Fixin' to Die Blues

by moon_crater, SynthApostate



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Awkward Boners, Bisexual Male Character, Bonding, Canon-Typical Problematic Language, Canon-Typical Violence, Captivity, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dehydration, Dubcon Cuddling, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Getting to Know Each Other, Huddling For Warmth, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Non-Sexual Bondage, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Polyamorous Character, Protectiveness, Slow Burn, Snark, Starvation, Torture, Touch-Starved, Whump, i guess?, the tags get wilder the longer this lasts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-17 07:54:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 25,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28970922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moon_crater/pseuds/moon_crater, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SynthApostate/pseuds/SynthApostate
Summary: A strong silent type and a chatterbox get held captive in Caesar's tent.That's it. That's the joke.
Relationships: Craig Boone/Benny (Fallout), brief Craig Boone/Female Courier, past Benny/Manny Vargas, past Craig Boone/Carla Boone, past Craig Boone/Carla Boone/Manny Vargas
Comments: 47
Kudos: 41





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I started this story for the kink meme, but then it died like, a bunch of times, leaving me with a stack of homeless unposted WIPs and a real case of the blues. I put ‘em aside and tried not to think about 'em but darn it, wouldn’t you know? They refused to stay put.
> 
> Welp, these layabout orphans have been hanging around here long enough. What’s a girl to do with unloved strays like these? Release them to the wild! Run! Be free! Frolic, little fic! Go eat someone else out of house and home for a change.
> 
> The original prompt that sparked this, trimmed for space: _Boone gets captured and held with Benny. The Courier (female preferred) gets word of it and comes to negotiate with Caesar. She gets a weapon to the boys and they wipe out the Fort. Benny and Boone have bonded during their captivity and Benny invites Boone to the Tops to thank him. Properly. Several times._
> 
> I may take a few liberties, as this story is footloose and fancy free rather than a proper meme fill, but anyway. This one should be done in a ~~couple~~ dozen chapters, and will likely land somewhere in “Explicit” territory. Ahem. I hope.
> 
> As ever, thanks to SynthApostate. She slices, she dices, she makes julienne fries! Most importantly, she makes me look clever! Just five easy payments of $19.95. No CODs. Please allow six to eight weeks for delivery.

Benny’s been kneeling in the dirt for something like two weeks, and he’s just about decided he’s bait in a trap that will never get sprung. Maybe they got their message to the wrong courier. Or maybe she knows he’s waiting, and she just doesn’t care.

It’s not like he expects a rescue from the broad he shot and left for dead. At this point, he’s just looking for an ending.

There’s a heavy rustling from the tent flap, and Benny can’t help turning his head to look. It won’t be _her_ , it never is, but it might be the kid who brings the water bucket. Benny hasn’t had a drink in hours, and he’s dizzy from the heat, with a river of sweat running down his back.

But it ain’t the kid.

Six Legionaries stumble in, dragging a body between them. NCR soldier, Benny thinks when he sees the army pants and boots. Then they drop their burden and step forward to make their salute to Caesar, and he sees the outfit is military-style but not quite the same as the uniform, and from the waist up is nothing but a t-shirt. But if this ain’t an enemy soldier, why’d they take him prisoner? 

He doesn’t move while the Legionaries make their explanations, which they do in low voices that don’t carry to Benny’s side of the tent. He leans forward, straining to overhear something, _anything_ ; he’s been staring at the inside of this tent so long, he’ll take whatever he can get to break up the monotony. A few of them look his way, and he flashes his best shit-eating grin. 

Caesar waves a hand, unconcerned, or possibly hurting too much to care what’s going on around him. Benny ain’t sure what’s wrong with the old man, but he’s been watching him for days, mapping out the waves of pain Caesar’s riding by the lines in his face and the quality of his orders. Right now, he’s at his most haggard, and Benny thinks he might liven things up by disappearing into his private room, leaving the worker ants to scramble around trying to figure out what to do on their own. 

But for now, Caesar stays seated, and his soldiers pick up their prisoner and drag him over to drop him in the dirt next to Benny.

That’s something unexpected.

The new guy’s unconscious, his face dark with bruises and blood. But some of the Legionaries ain’t exactly in tip-top condition, either. Looking at the split lips and bloody noses, Benny figures his new friend must have put up a pretty good fight before they took him down. Which is probably why his hands are tightly bound behind his back, instead of more conveniently tied in the front like Benny’s. 

He’s got a mangled pair of sunglasses hanging from one ear, looking like they took the brunt of a punch to the nose, and a red beret that’s slid most of the way off his recently-shaved head.

One of the Legionaries gives the new guy one last kick in the ass for good measure before leaving them alone. He’s out cold and likely to stay that way a while longer, which means the monotony ain’t gonna get broken up by conversation or whispered escape plans anytime soon. 

At least Benny’s got something new to look at, something that ain’t the same four canvas walls and leather skirts.

The fella’s tall and broad, Benny notes. More dense through the torso and legs than most wastelanders, who lean toward stringy rather than beefy. Probably an NCR native, not just a Mojave recruit, or maybe even one of those Vaulties who come topside when they got bored with safety and regular meals. Got to be one or the other. Born wastelanders never quite shake lifetimes of low level radiation poisoning and malnutrition. Even Benny, in spite of living large for the last seven years, has all the marks of a wimpy little wasteland urchin who made good, if you know what to look for. 

If he’s NCR, he’s likely got ideas about ‘civilized’ morals...which means it might be harder to convince him to make a break for it, but also suggests the guy won’t immediately stab Benny in the back if the opportunity presents itself. That’s a point in his favor. If he’s a Vaultie, he might have morals and be a rube, besides— which means he’ll be easy to play, and probably useless in a fight, but even naive little dipshits can serve as human shields if the need arises. 

Benny thinks on that a bit. Whether or not to be honest with the guy when he wakes up, and if he’s not gonna be honest then which angle to play. 

And while he’s considering different tall tales, the new guy stirs.

He doesn’t come to all at once. It takes a minute for his eyes to focus, much less for him to try to sit up. That ain’t easy with his hands tied behind him, but he tries, wincing with every movement. Hurting. Hurting and stubborn. 

“Need a hand?” Benny asks. His new friend ignores him. What a great conversationalist.

He gets his knees under him, and from there manages to heave himself upright with an unsteady grunt. The beret stays behind in the dirt. Its owner stares down at it, then closes his eyes. But closing them makes him sway alarmingly, so he opens them again. He finally looks at Benny.

“Concussion?” Benny asks.

His pal shrugs, blank-faced.

“Took a beating?”

A grunt.

“Yeah, me, too.”

“I...would really like my beret back,” the man says in a voice utterly devoid of emotion. Then he turns to stare straight ahead.

It doesn’t sound like a request, but Benny shrugs and picks up the hat. He shakes off the dirt as best he can, and reaches up and places it on the other guy’s head. He clumsily knocks off the broken sunglasses as he does it, but they weren’t doing any good, anyway.

The other man has turned slightly to look at Benny out of the corner of his eye.

“Thanks,” he says in that same flat tone.

“Yeah, sure, any time.” He has his jacket, this cat has his beret. It’s a morale thing. “I’m Benny,” he says, desperate to get any kind of conversation going, even if it’s just about the weather.

“Of course you are.” Still flat, but with a slight tightening of the skin around the eyes.

“Huh? What’s that supposed to mean?” Benny has a sinking feeling his reputation precedes him, which throws all his plans about manipulation into immediate disarray.

“You shouldn’t have run from Six.” There’s a hint of an emotion in his voice now. Annoyance, or maybe disgust.

“Six?” Benny repeats. “You mean the courier?” His heart lurches in his chest. Is this one of her friends? Is she on her way? Or—was she killed, and her sidekick taken prisoner?

Either Benny suddenly stands a much better chance of getting rescued, or he just became worthless as a prisoner. He might find himself up on a cross as soon as the old man’s feeling well enough to remember him. Or he might be free by the end of the day. (Or, he reminds himself, she might show up to save her friend but _not_ him.) 

“Is she coming?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

That’s good news, but—

“For _me_?”

A shrug. Benny sighs.

“You got a name, pal?”

“Boone.”

Boone. Great. Grunt. Shrug. Yeah. Blink. He’d be better off just staring at the walls. 

“You know,” Benny says. “You got a face only a mother could love. If that mother was a stump.”

Boone says nothing.

“I’m callin’ you wooden, baby. Dig?”

The next grunt might be the closest thing Boone has to a laugh, or it might not. Hard to tell. Benny decides to test and see if his new pal has a sense of humor, even if it’s a bad one.

“Yeah, real wooden,” Benny continues. “Maybe you should make like a tree and leave.”

“I’ve been captured.”

Okay, so it wasn’t a laugh. Benny tries again: “What did the executioner say to the guy who invented crucifixion?”

Nothing.

“ _Nailed it.”_ He thought of that one days ago, and he’s been grimly sitting on it ever since. Not that he don’t appreciate humor as a coping mechanism, but it’s nice to get it out of his head and into the open. Maybe now it’ll stop circling in there like a vulture.

“Do you ever get tired of talking?” Boone asks. Well, Benny thinks it’s a question. There’s no inflection to be found.

“Screw you too, pally,” he says without heat. He’s had no one to talk to for... Christ, how long has it been? He’s got a lot of conversation to catch up on. Every time he tries it with the guards, they shut him up with a fist to the teeth, but Boone is a captive audience.

But Benny stops talking, just to show he can. They keep quiet for the next hour. For an hour after that, they don’t say anything. They wait around in silence for the next sixty minutes. Then, just to shake things up, they spend an hour not talking to each other.

“Don’t you ever get tired of being quiet?” Benny finally asks.

“No.”

Then he’s quiet again. It’s fucking incredible. No human being should be like this.

By now, the sun is down. Benny can see stars through that hole in the top of the tent. The midday heat is long gone. Benny has his suit, retrieved from the rock he hid it under on the other side of the river. That’s a hell of a step up from the first few days, when the Legion goons left him stripped to his underwear. But it still ain’t much in an unheated tent. Benny can feel tendrils of Mojave chill creeping down the back of his collar. Boone, in his grubby t-shirt, is already shivering.

“Hey, stump,” Benny says, and is mildly pleased when Boone reacts to the nickname. “You want to get over here?”

He expects to have to talk him into it, but Boone doesn’t wait for a second invitation. He wriggles over until the two men are sitting crowded together, shoulder to shoulder, knee to knee.

“Good to see you ain’t too macho to snuggle,” Benny says. Boone looks at him, a long moment of silence.

Then, “Army,” he grunts.

“Army,” Benny grunts back. “You wanna spell it out for me, kid? Maybe try full sentences this time?”

Boone looks at him some more. Benny looks back. He can be patient, too... when he has no other choice.

“Sharing body heat in adverse conditions is standard procedure in the military,” says Boone. “Period.”

Hot damn, is that a hint of humor? Drier than he’s used to, but dry can be good. It’s sure as shit better than silence.

Speaking of silence, Boone’s done talking again. Period, end of sentence, end of conversation, and now for our next act, another endless stretch of goddamn nothing.

Benny opens his mouth to say something, anything, but before he can, Boone sways into him and nearly knocks them both over.

“Sorry.” He tries to right himself, but his balance is off. Benny shrugs, which makes it worse.

“Relax, pal. You’re concussed. It’ll do that to ya.” He tries to think what he knows to do about concussions. He does know something, but Boone ain’t gonna like it. “I need you to talk to me,” he says.

“No.”

“Concussions are nothing to play around with. I gotta keep you awake.”

“I am awake.”

“And I want you to stay that way.”

Grunt.

“Tell me about yourself,” Benny prods.

“I’d rather die.”

“Fall asleep, buddy boy, and you might get your wish.”

“Good.”

“Ain’t you got any survival instinct?”

“No.”

If Benny’s hands were free he’d bury his face in his palms. This ain’t how this is supposed to go. “Anyone ever tell you you’re very uncooperative?”

“Yes.”

Okay, so the words are single syllable. At least he’s talkin’, right? “And who was smart enough to tell you that?”

“My wife.”

Jackpot! Benny ain’t never known a military man who didn’t wax poetic and at length about his dame back home. If he's lucky, maybe he can get a nice racy story out of the guy. That might chase off the cold, at least for a bit. “Tell me about her.”

“She’s dead.”

Never mind.

“My condolences,” Benny says at last, bumping his shoulder against Boone’s.

Another grunt. “Don’t.”

What? Why the fuck wouldn’t a widower want sympathy? “Why?”

A pause.

“C’mon, pally, you can’t leave me hanging here.”

“I can.”

“C’mon, please,” Benny needles. “In case you ain’t noticed, I can’t exactly keep myself busy twiddling my thumbs here.”

“You don’t want to know.”

“Sure I do.” And it's the truth. “Tell me.”

”No.”

”You can tell me.”

”Don’t want to.”

”I don’t want to be here, you don’t want to chat, we all got our cross to bear.” There’s that damn topic again, turning up like a bad penny. To distract himself, Benny jabs Boone in the side. “Talk.”

Boone stubbornly doesn’t reply.

”Talk, fella,” Benny presses. “Jaw, gab, yakkity yak.”

The other guy’s jaw clenches.

”Run off at the mouth. Chew the fat—”

“Quiet.”

But Benny keeps going, if only because this is the closest he’s gotten to fun in ages. “Let the cat out of the bag, spill the beans, spill your _guts_.”

”You’re not going to give up.”

“You see anything else to keep me occupied?” Benny gestures around at the tent and its lack of earthly delights. “I can go all night and you better believe that’s a threat.”

A long, long pause.

”Now, what happened to the Little Woman?”

A sigh, and oh man he can already tell this is gonna be juicy by the way Boone's mouth twists. Benny leans in.

“I shot her.”

Benny blinks, feels the thousand yard stare on his own face, but he recovers nimbly.

“A man of hidden depths.” Somehow this is simultaneously the worst, best, least and most interesting conversation he’s ever had. He sort of wants to see how it turns out. “Lemme guess, she was steppin’ out on ya?”

“ _Stop_.”

Emotion! Benny’s too busy riding the high of his (admittedly minor) victory to realize he’s being warned off.

“Another man? Your best friend?” A better thought occurs to him. “Another woman?”

“She. Was with. The Legion.”

“What, _all_ of them?” He grimaces, feeling a stab of real sympathy. “Jesus, I’d have shot her, too.”

The top of Boone’s head smashes Benny in the eye. Benny sprawls sideways in the dirt. Boone falls the other way, half-stunned from trying to use his already busted head as a weapon like a goddamn moron.

“Too far.”

“Two concussions.” It’s almost witty, but it ain’t quite, and Benny grunts it out besides. Jesus, now he’s stealing baldy’s material.

For awhile they lie there, flopped on the ground at odd angles like a couple fish out of water, but the night air closes around him like an icy fist and soon Benny’s trembling in spite of himself.

Finally, he says, “I got bad news and I got worse news, buddy. How do you want ‘em delivered?”

Boone doesn’t answer.

“Bad news: I’m cold. You?”

Still nothing, but he can almost believe the tone of Boone’s silence changes.

“That’s what I thought.”

“What’s the worse news.”

Benny wriggles across the ground like a worm until he’s face to face with Boone. “I don’t intend to die of exposure. I’m declaring a truce.”

Boone’s eyes narrow dangerously. “No.”

But Benny won’t hear of it. He throws a leg over Boone and gets in real tight against his body, using the other guy like a blanket. “Yeah, see, ‘declare’ ain’t ‘ask’. I’m a cuddler.”

“I hate you.”

“Not fond of you either, guy.”

“This is torture.”

Benny gets in closer. “Suffer.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Advisories** : Violence (mild), torture (off screen), canon-typical themes/language and specifically language that echoes Legion-typical ideas about masculinity and all that entails (homophobia, sexism, etc.)

He keeps his eyes open and his mouth going for as long as he can, but at some point, Benny sleeps. He ain’t slept, really slept, in days, and the human contact does him in. Boone is warm, and Benny is horizontal for once—he’s only slept sitting up for god knows how long, because lying prone on the ground is how you lose all your body heat and die of hypothermia in the desert—and the result is the closest to a good night’s sleep he’s had in awhile.

Come morning, they’re still intertwined, and the water boy decides to wake them up by emptying his bucket over their heads.

“Degenerates,” the kid says coldly as they cough and sputter their way back to consciousness. He leaves. Probably won’t come back. Benny knows he’ll have regrets in a few hours when he’s dying of thirst, but for now, good riddance.

Benny peels himself away from Boone, who ain’t died in the night. That’s something, anyhow. They both sit up. Boone loses his hat again, and without being asked, Benny picks it up and plops it, sopping wet, back into place. Boone says nothing.

“All right,” says Benny. “Sorry about your wife.”

“Hm.” It’s a throaty, almost agreeable sound. “Sorry about your eye.”

“Your head feelin’ any better?” Benny asks.

“I’ll live.”

“Well, try not to be too disappointed.”

They lapse into silence. For lack of anything better to do, they watch the movement in the tent. The guards change. Caesar takes his throne, looking more alert today. Nobody comes by with food. They’ve been throwing Benny scraps, but it ain’t on a regular schedule, so he ain’t expecting much. They still want their prisoners alive; someone will feed him eventually.

As the sun rises in the sky, the icebox turns back into an oven. Benny looks over at Boone, who has dried out from their morning bath. Benny can still feel a damp spot between his shoulder blades, but it ain’t doing much against the stifling heat. A kid in a slave collar creeps in with a fan to wave at Caesar while he takes his reports, and Benny tries to will those air currents over to his side of the tent. He’s lived in the Mojave most of his life, so he’s used to these extremes of temperature, but that don’t mean he has to like it. Benny squirms, trying to get out of his jacket. He can’t get it all the way off, not with his hands tied, but if he could just get his shoulders free…

Boone hunches over, takes Benny’s collar in his teeth, and hitches it down. Instantly, he feels about ten degrees cooler.

“Hey, thanks, pal,” says Benny.

“Yeah.”

“’You’re so very welcome, Benny-my-man. It was my pleasure. Anything for a friend.’”

Boone just looks at him.

“All right, keep your trap shut. See if I care.” He looks around the tent, trying to resign himself to another day of watching and waiting.

Boone says nothing.

“You want to play twenty questions?” Benny asks.

“No.”

“Animal, vegetable, or mineral?”

Boone dummies back up. All right, so much for that.

“How’s about I Spy? I spy, with my little eye, something that begins with T.”

“Tent,” Boone says flatly.

Benny deflates. Maybe he’ll just be quiet.

They both sit for a good long while, until Boone mutters, “Hangman.”

“What?”

“I said hangman,” Boone repeats, sounding like he’s volunteering for a suicide mission.

“The game?” Benny’s eyebrows climb when Boone murmurs an agreement. “Boone, baby, there may be hope for you yet.”

He never thought he’d be so happy to draw a gallows in the dirt.

* * *

“You spelled it wrong.” Boone huffs.

“You’re just bein’ a sore loser.” Benny looks down at their game, where he’s drawn a stick figure at the end of the rope, with a full face, hair, ten fingers and twelve toes. He’s even made the figure a sexy dame, to give his new pal two extra guesses.

“It’s h-o-r-s-e-s-h-i-t,” Boone spells.

“Horses shit? That don’t even mean anything. Whoreshit starts with a W.”

“That isn’t a word.”

“Says you!”

Boone turns away, and Benny decides this ain’t worth an argument, even though he knows he’s in the right.

“Don’t go away mad,” he wheedles, and starts to rub out the drawing. “C’mon, I’ll let you pick the next one.”

Benny ain’t been paying attention to the guards, and they ain’t been paying attention to him. So it comes as a surprise when a boot catches him in the ribs and sends him flying back. He lands hard, and can’t get his bearings in time to dodge the knee that comes down on his chest, pinning him in place.

“What is the meaning of this?” The guard gestures at the unreadable smudge that just suggests angles and letters. “You dare plot an escape in full view of Caesar’s guards?”

“You think I’m dumb enough to write it out for you? What kind of a loser do you think I am?” It would be pointless to pretend he ain’t been thinking of ways to escape, even if that’s not what he’s up to at the moment. But maybe he should have tried.

The guard’s weight presses down on him, then lifts off. Before Benny can do more than suck in a quick breath, a hand grabs him by the hair and hauls him halfway upright. Benny clings to the guard’s wrist. He can’t break the grip, but at least it takes some pressure off his scalp. He manages to get one foot under him; the other leg drags across the dirt as the guard hauls him toward the tent flap and gestures another over to help.

Benny panics, knees locking, breath stopped in his throat. He knows exactly what it means to be dragged out of the tent. The guards expect screaming, and they don’t want to bother Caesar with the noise. It’s been days since they decided they were out of questions to ask him, a short enough time that it’s still fresh in his mind what they like to do to their captives, but long enough that he ain’t on the edge of his seat anymore, prepared for it to happen again any minute.

Benny wrenches himself backwards, not caring that he loses a chunk of hair in the process. The guard throws him to the ground and spins toward him, foot raised for another kick. With a kind of sick fascination, Benny watches the boot coming for his face.

Boone laughs. It’s a harsh sound like a rusty gate, but it is a laugh and it’s coming from Boone. Either that, or Benny’s hallucinating.

The boot thumps into the dirt. Benny’s face is still intact. Eyes, nose, teeth, all in their rightful places. He scrambles backwards in case this is just a temporary hiatus.

“You think this idiot is masterminding an escape?” Boone asks.

Oh, sure, now he talks in full sentences.

“He’s got you convinced he’s that smart?” Boone continues, jerking his head at Benny. One of the Legionaries, the blonde who grabbed Benny first, puffs up like an angry Nightkin at the insult. The other puts a hand on Blondie’s arm and glances at Caesar to see if they’ve disturbed him. Boone keeps going. “You’re dumber than you look, and you look plenty dumb.”

That’s the most words Boone’s strung together since they met, and he’s using them to swing at a cazador nest with the stingers all aimed at Benny.

“Do me a favor, pal,” Benny murmurs, eyes darting between Boone and the Legion goons, who are getting plenty riled by now. “Don’t help me.”

“You insult the chosen men of Caesar?” The blonde one’s eyes spark and he advances on them. Benny shrinks back in case he comes down with a case of the kicks.

“When they’re stupid enough to think that guy is the brains of the operation, yeah.”

“Don’t,” Benny says again, with more urgency. He never asked this musclebound lunk to protect him. He’ll take that protection if Boone insists, Benny’s practical like that, but he wants it on record he never asked.

“Profligate scum,” the calmer one growls at Boone, and Benny might as well have not said anything at all. “You would do well to watch your tongue.”

“Why,” Boone asks in that question-that-ain’t-a-question way. “You gonna torture me next?” He scoffs. “Doubt it. It’s clear you’re not up to beating somebody who can take it. You’d rather take it out on unarmed man, and not even a soldier, but a civilian. A soft—“

Hey.

“—doughy—“

Hey!

“—pampered—“

H—okay, that one ain’t totally unfair but still.

“Civilian.” Boone laughs again, and it’s a humorless, almost inhuman sound. “What next, my grandmother? She’s ninety-eight pounds soaking wet. You might stand a chance.”

“You dare insinuate we are cowards?!“

“I dare,” Boone says. “If you had dynamite for balls, you couldn’t blow your skirts up.”

A fist comes barreling at Boone’s face to knock him flat into the dirt, and two meaty sets of arms swing down to drag him up again. Not just up but out, dragging Boone away from the relative safety of Caesar’s tent. 

Forgotten, Benny settles back into his usual spot, hands clasped between his knees to hide the shaking he pretends even to himself ain’t there. He sits perfectly still and silent, a model prisoner, and gives no one any cause to notice him for the rest of the day.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Advisories** : Much like the last chapter, weaponized Legion-typical homophobia; suggestive talk around an underage character (absolutely nothing explicit); very bad jokes

Benny ain’t sure they’ll be bringing Boone back, but eventually they do. They throw him down next to Benny, and he lies there, pale and still. His eyes are shadowed. He doesn’t speak. Benny doesn’t speak, either.

After some time, Boone sits up, moving slower than the day before. The tent is still warm, but Benny inches toward him, and Boone does the same, until shoulder hits shoulder and they both lean into the contact.

“No more hangman,” says Boone.

“It’s a stupid game anyway,” Benny agrees. He doesn’t say thanks, but he does say, “It’s horses shit.”

* * *

The night is warm enough that they don’t have to curl into each other to survive it, but they do anyway.

Benny knows the night’s heat bodes poorly for the next day. Sure enough the morning temperature is brutal. The water boy kicks them awake instead of dousing them, which means they get a drink. A drink’s good, but as usual, it ain’t enough to live on. This time, the kid throws a couple of chunks of molerat jerky down in front of them, too. He makes sure to throw it in the dirt just past the edge of the rug they’re sitting on, because this kid’s a little shit.

Boone looks down at the jerky, shoulders slumped, trying to work out how to lie on his belly and pick up a piece in his teeth without getting a mouthful of dirt along with it. Well, that’s his own fault for being so damn uncooperative that he’s lost his hands-in-front privileges. Benny snatches up both pieces.

He’s hungry enough for both. He’s hungry enough for ten times as much. But, even though he’d rather not, he jams one piece into Boone’s mouth before he starts gnawing on the other.

“Hngh,” Boone grunts in what sounds like surprise.

“You’re welcome.”

Benny tries to make his jerky last, imagining it’s a big juicy steak with Instamash and gravy. As the sun starts to climb, he stops thinking about meat and instead remembers the one spectacular summer when the Tops had a working ice cream machine. He thinks about iced tea and Nuka, whiskey and beer. More than anything, he thinks about water.

If morning is brutal, afternoon is worse. By the time the sun has crested past the highest point and starts to dip again, Benny’s roasting but good.

Not as bad as Boone, though. He’s been outside in the elements for a full day and he’s naturally paler than Benny; he also lacks the base tan Benny’s got from the last couple weeks out here, the one that keeps him from crisping like a steak sizzling in a skillet. By mid-afternoon, every exposed inch of Boone’s skin is red and angry. In a day or two, he might even start to peel like an overripe fruit fixing to split.

Boone doesn’t complain, of course, though he winces when the water boy comes by and rests a hand on his shoulder while passing out the stuff. The kid swings through a couple times during the day, because Caesar wants living, breathing captives, not a couple pillars of human jerky, but it still never feels like enough water—and every time, the pained wrinkle in Boone’s brow gets more pronounced.

About four in the afternoon, when Boone is so thoroughly baked he looks like a fried up piece of CRAM, the kid comes through again to ladle some water into their mouths, sneering at them like they’re radroaches the whole time.

“Hey,” Benny says, and tries not to think too hard about why he’s about to do what he’s about to do. “Think you could give me a quick splash from that bucket, kid? I’m dyin’ here.”

“Die, then.” The kid takes almost perverse delight in _not_ dousing Benny, now that he needs it.

“The Mighty Caesar’s downwind, kid, and me and my pal here ain’t exactly shower fresh. Do the big cheese a favor and hose one of us off, huh? Me.”

The kid frowns, squinting at him with thoughtful skepticism. But the kid is also about twelve—old enough to think he’s pretty smart, but young enough to still be kind of dumb about the ways of the world. A primo mark.

“C’mon, kid,” Benny says with a calculated pout. “I’m... _overheated_ , you dig?”

“That’s your problem.”

“It’s about to be Caesar’s, you get me?” But the kid, whether too sheltered by the Legion or too thick to figure it out, doesn’t pick up on what he’s laying down. So, Benny spells it out. “Look. You _gotta_ help me.”

“No. I don’t.”

“Sure you do. I’m your captive! You’re responsible for me. And it ain’t my fault they put this hunk of burnin’, burnin’ man meat in here with me. Look at him—“

The kid frowns Boone’s direction. Boone tries damn hard not to look at either of them.

“He’s hot as hell!” Benny relishes the wordplay in spite of himself. “I can’t control myself around him. I gotta cool off or I might lose it and do something—” Benny drops his head in a convincing show of shame he’s never felt in his life, not just about sex, but about anything. “— _degenerate._ ”

He steals a look at the kid through his eyelashes. The word hits the right note, ‘cause he looks at Benny like he’s just admitted to having a highly contagious condition that makes your dick spontaneously fall off. Poor brat’s swallowed the Legion spin—not his fault, but still tragic. If the Legion ever falls, maybe the kid will get out and learn better. More likely he’ll end up in a raider gang and learn more of the same, but hope springs.

“Help a poor sinner tame his base instincts,” Benny begs, and that does it. The kid sighs, hefts his bucket, and throws the water at him.

Benny ducks so Boone gets most of the splash. On the downswing, naturally, the bucket cracks Benny in the head and sends him sprawling. That’s what they mean when they say no good deed goes unpunished.

It ain’t a concussion, just a headache, so after wallowing in self-pity for a minute, Benny sits back up. The kid is gone, Benny’s still broiling in his jacket, and now Boone is giving him looks.

“Enjoying the view?” Benny asks.

“Not especially.”

That seems like all he has to say, but he keeps looking. Benny waits. Boone drips.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Boone says eventually.

“Yeah? You didn’t have to take a beating for me. We all do things we come to regret.”

“Huh,” says Boone.

“’Huh’ what? You got something to say, or is that just the sound the two rocks in your head make when you knock ‘em together?”

Benny ain’t sure why he’s feeling so testy. Boone doesn’t appreciate it. He’s quiet. He’s quiet for a while.

Then he says, “’Huh,’ I can take a sunburn.”

“And you think I can’t take what they have to dish out? Pally, I been doing nothing _but_ take it up until now.” And he feels like he’s been mauled by a yao guai, his nerves are worn to threads, and every time he dozes off he wakes up with a scream in the back of his throat, but that’s nobody’s business but his.

“I’ll stay out of your way next time,” says Boone.

“Fine, then I won’t worry about you and your Vault-Boy burn. Have you ever even seen the sun before?”

“I work nights.”

“Yeah?” Benny can’t help but be curious. “What do you do?”

“Sniper,” says Boone. He thinks about it, and decides to ration out some more information. “Town guard, used to be.”

“Interesting work?”

“Not really.” He looks at Benny. “It’s quiet.”

“And you like the quiet.”

“Yeah,” says Boone.

Yeah, he can see that. Benny keeps his mouth shut for a full fifteen seconds, to Boone’s relief.

Then he says, “Me, I like to be where the action is.”

Boone slumps over with a what-fresh-hell-is-this sigh.

“You ever been to the Strip? It’s beautiful. Everything _happening_ all around you. You get dizzy with it.”

“I live on the Strip,” says Boone.

“You don’t say.” Benny looks him over, trying to figure out what he means by that. The NCR embassy? If he’s ex-army, that could be it. Or maybe he’s an escaped White Glove. Except he’s not weird like them. Too much class to be an Omerta, and of course he ain’t a Chairman. No, he’s gotta be NCR.

“I live with Six,” says Boone. “She works for House.”

“That much I know.” She ain’t a talker, that courier, but she had more to say than her sniper pal when she came around trying to sucker him upstairs.

“The way she talked about you...” Boone shrugs instead of finishing his thought.

“You were maybe expecting someone taller?” Benny guesses. Boone doesn’t answer. “It’s a joke. You know, funny ha-ha?”

“I’ve heard better.”

“Oh, yeah? Like what?” He doesn’t think Boone would know a joke if it jumped up and bit him in the ass, but maybe he’s in for a surprise.

Bone thinks about it, then reluctantly says, “Knock... knock.”

“Who’s there?”

“Interrupting brahmin.”

“Oh,” Benny sighs. “Careful with that one. It’s an antique.”

“You didn’t let me get to the punchline.”

“I heard it before.” Still, an old joke is better than no joke at all. “You got any more?”

“One,” Boone sighs.

“All right, buddy-boy, lay it on me!”

“Knock knock,” Boone says lifelessly.

“Who—”

“Moo.”

Benny starts laughing and can’t stop. It ain’t the joke, it’s the delivery. Boone waits for him to settle down. He still don’t crack a smile.

The guards are getting restless, so Benny sits up straight and forces his face into a stern expression. He doesn’t have to laugh. It ain’t that funny. _Moo_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Moon: ...I want the kid to say "[Douse yourself in water and repent!](https://youtu.be/JGNTc0hf4oY?t=69)"
> 
> SynthApostate: **_No._**


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Advisories** : More of the same as the last few chapters. A few additional advisories are spoilery, however, so please check the end notes for more details.

By twilight, the spit’s worth of water they’ve had catches up with Benny. He squirms, but takes some solace in the encroaching dark that will obscure his most private particulars when he whips ‘em out.

There’s a bucket, left within easy reach of the prisoners, that Benny only made use of the day before while Boone was away. The only good thing about severe dehydration is he don’t need to go often. God knows when and where Boone did his business since he got here. In between rounds of Human Piñata, Benny can only assume.

He ain’t been avoiding it on purpose, just a matter of timing, but now Benny has to go. So he does, moving slow and steady so the guards don’t get any ideas. They watch without interest.

Boone doesn’t watch, and he’s real obvious about it. And he’s fidgeting, for the first time in their long acquaintance.

“You need it?” Benny asks when he’s done.

Boone’s grunt comes in a different tone than usual. He doesn’t move.

“Want me to move it closer?”

Boone grits his teeth. Benny looks at him, with his hands still behind his back, and figures out the problem.

“Need me to aim it for you?”

Boone squeezes his eyes shut.

“I... would... appreciate that,” he spits each word like it tastes bad.

“Better me than them, hey?” Benny nods to the guards. “You _could_ ask ‘em to untie you.”

“Hm.”

Boone’s right. Asking wouldn’t do any good.

Benny’s businesslike, getting Boone out of his pants and handling the equipment, the same way he’d hope Boone would treat him if their positions were reversed. It doesn’t stop the guards from nudging each other like a couple of giggling virgins who’ve never seen a full-size dick before.

The Legion has some weird goddamn hangups. NCR does, too.

Telling Boone not to sweat over it would only make this worse for him, so Benny does what he can to make things normal. He gets everything squared away, sits back down, and starts yapping. About the Boot Riders, a subject he’s avoided for seven years. Maybe he has them on the mind because it stings being called soft by this crumb who looks like the son of a salesmen. (Y’know, one of those pre-war guys who used to go door-to-door with the sexy sucking machines all the housefraus went gaga over. Okay, so he don’t know for sure they were sexy, but what else could they be used for?)

Or maybe he just misses being out on his own two feet.

He talks about scavving the ruins, first in California, then farther East when civilization pushed them out.

He talks about his first gecko hunt, leaving out the part where he piggybacked off one of Tommy Torini’s kills, but keeping the part where Tommy got his leg chomped and Benny technically saved his life. Anybody would have stepped in if Benny hadn’t, but it’s still something Tommy never forgot. (‘Cause Benny never lets him forget it.)

He talks about House’s offer. How most of the tribe wanted to tell him to go squat in a cactus patch. How Benny was one of the few to see the value of a permanent home in the lap of goddamn luxury after a lifetime of barely scraping by.

He talks about the three days he spent trying to talk the others around to his side, how Tommy and Swank were the first to see reason. How the argument finally ended with Bingo dead and Benny in charge.

Boone listens to everything without comment, until finally he says, “Bingo? Like the game?”

“What game?” Benny asks.

Boone shrugs.

“You’re a real pain in the ass, you know that?” says Benny.

“You traded Bingo for blackjack,” says Boone. “That’s funny.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” He ain’t sure if Boone is being sarcastic, or what. Maybe the cat don’t know that when something is funny, you’re supposed to laugh.

Boone doesn’t answer, and Benny goes quiet, too. It ain’t the ordeal it could have been. Now that he has somebody to gab to, a few minutes of quiet can be sort of comfortable, like switching out wingtips for bedroom slippers.

But, inevitably, those minutes start to stretch on too long, and Benny gets antsy.

“You think anything interesting’ll happen tomorrow?” he asks.

Boone looks at Caesar, looks at the guards, looks at the darkening sky through the hole in the tent. He looks at Benny and says, “No.”

“Slave revolt?” Benny suggests.

“Doubtful.”

“Crucifixion?”

“Hope not.”

“You think your friend will be here soon?”

“Probably not. She might be in Utah.”

“ _Utah_?”

Benny shouts it in surprise and anger, forgetting the consequences of calling attention to himself, and all of a sudden everybody’s looking at him.

“Will somebody shut him up?” Caesar demands, and the guard Benny’s nicknamed Moose (for his vocabulary) moves to comply.

Benny flinches, expecting to get reacquainted with Legion footwear, but instead of coming right at him, Moose goes to the supply chest for an old rag and a roll of duct tape.

“Oh, come on, I’ll be quiet,” Benny protests as the guard looms over him. “Can't you just hit me? This ain’t necessa-rgkhh—“ The gag goes in his mouth and what feels like halfway down his throat. By reflex, Benny bites down, but Moose’s fingers are already gone. He gets a slap to the temple for his trouble, that’s all. Then Moose starts winding the tape around Benny’s head, sealing his trap shut.

No. No no no no no. He shakes his head, trying to break free, but it’s no use. The tape goes around and around. He’s choking, his throat working against the wad of cloth, trying to bring it up enough to clear his airway, but Moose ain’t paying attention to that. Caesar’s getting up to go to bed. Nobody cares. They only need one hostage, and Benny ain’t the one who’s valuable.

The wad of cloth works loose and finds its way to his tongue, but he can’t quite stop coughing around it yet. His eyes water, almost streaming by the time Moose tears off the tape and walks away. It’s just Benny’s gag reflex getting the better of him, the acrid waft of stomach acid burning at the back of his throat and sinuses, but that doesn’t make him panic any less. His forehead prickles with stress sweat. He lifts a shoulder to rasp the wetness away with the wool of his jacket.

“Take it easy,” Boone says, his voice low and smooth and sure as shit not the kind of thing that would get a gag shoved in his mouth.

Benny nods, though taking it easy is the last thing on his mind.

“Keep breathing. You’re okay.”

 _Yeah, sure, pally, that’s easy for you to say_ , Benny thinks, and almost chokes on a laugh. Anything’s easy for Boone to say because _Boone ain’t gagged._

Boone stares at him, maybe curious, but Benny can’t tell him what’s funny.

No, wait. He can’t tell him what the gag is.

Look at him, reduced to bad puns and he can’t even say them out loud.

Benny lies down, because what the hell else is there to do? He curls on his side, knees close to his chest, hoping the guards won’t notice that he can’t help picking at the tape over his mouth. It’s too many layers to get through, and he knows he’s in for something worse if they think he’s trying to get free, but his fingers won’t leave it alone.

Boone stretches out next to him. They don’t touch, but Benny can feel the heat radiating off him like a goddamn furnace. That sunburn of his has brought on a scorching fever.

Great, so they’ll both be miserable.

“Leave it alone,” Boone warns.

With an annoyed grunt, Benny tucks his hands under his chin, fingers locked together like a prayer. But he ain’t the praying kind. Soon, he’s picking at the duct tape again.

”Stop,” says Boone.

This time Benny just scratches harder.

“I guess you need a distraction,” Boone says with an unwilling sigh. “Should I...talk to you?”

Yes, Benny wants that. He ain’t expecting it, but now that it’s on the table, he would be intensely fucking grateful for anything that’ll take his mind off this.

He waits for Boone to think of something juicy. And waits. And waits. And waits.

And waits.

And fucking waits.

“Hm!” Benny grumbles. Boone has the nerve to be startled.

“Sorry. I’m new at this. What do people talk about?”

It ain’t easy to do with his hands bound, but Benny makes a gesture like he’s cupping a pair of massive bazoombas.

“No,” says Boone. “Any other requests?”

Benny makes a disappointed sound in the back of his throat and shrinks the bust size from big bombshells, to average aroogas, on down to dainty double-whammies.

“ _No._ ”

All right, so Boone don’t kiss and tell. The least he could do is make something up.

Well, Boone said he had a wife, but not all wives have got jubblies, so maybe that's the problem. What’s sign language for dick?

“Never mind, I’ll pick the subject,” says Boone. “You said you used to scav around Bakersfield. I was born near there.”

So he talks about growing up in California. It was a normal childhood, he says. Two loving parents. A roof over his head. School until he was twelve. A part-time job hunting molerats for the local farmers. None of that sounds normal to Benny, but he gets no input in this yarn.

The subject matter ain’t much, and Boone couldn’t tell an engaging story to save his life, but it gets the job done. Benny forgets about this newest form of torture. He stops trying to peel the tape off his face. Sometime in the middle of Boone's teen years, he falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Advisories** : unsexy bodily functions (look, in adverse situations, I wonder about logistics!), unsexy gagging on top of the already unsexy bondage
> 
> EXCLUSIVE DIRECTOR'S CUT CONTENT: silly words for boobs that did not make the final draft: norks, blouse bunnies, tig ol' bitties and [this entire bit](https://youtu.be/pnzKgcWDcl4?t=5).


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to JG, who gave us some wonderfully sadistic ideas that see some play in this chapter! Enjoy.
> 
>  **Advisories** : off screen death, forced medical intervention, vague sex related discussions

Benny doesn’t sleep soundly. The gag tries to suffocate him any time he lets up with his tongue, so that keeps him on his toes. Still, he dozes fitfully and makes it through to morning.  
  
He wakes to the sound of laughter and the goddamn water boy kicking him in the leg. The kid gives Boone a drink. Then he offers the dipper to Benny.  
  
Benny glares at him.  
  
“Oh, sorry,” says the little shit, taking it back.  
  
Benny is really starting to hate that kid.  
  
The brat’s carrying a bag over his shoulder, which means food. Sure enough, he dumps a couple of mutfruit in the dirt, followed by two finger-sized chunks of charred meat that smells like squirrel. It’s rations for two. Christ, this kid is an asshole.  
  
Benny waves at the guards, in case they’ve been meaning to un-muzzle him and just forgot. No such luck.  
  
Okay, so Boone gets a decent breakfast today. Benny picks up one of the mutfruits and holds it to his pal’s mouth.  
  
“No,” says Boone.  
  
No? What does he mean, no? Benny pushes the mutfruit closer.  
  
“Not hungry,” says Boone.  
  
The hell he ain’t! Maybe he hasn’t been there as long as Benny, but when you’re on starvation rations, it don’t take long to notice.  
  
“Mm!” Benny insists.  
  
“I said no.”  
  
Benny tries to shove the fruit between Boone’s lips. Boone turns his head away.  
  
“Mm!” Benny huffs. Where does this guy get off making a martyr out of himself?  
  
“I’ll eat when you eat.”  
  
Fuck’s sake. The guards don’t care. Caesar don’t care. He ain’t proving anything, just going hungry for no reason. It’s stupid. Benny doesn’t know what this stubborn streak is in Boone. Is he noble? Is he self-destructive? Either way, it’s beyond Benny’s grasp.  
  
“Hmm?” Benny asks, pointing at the squirrel meat.  
  
“No.”  
  
“Hmmm?” _Why?_  
  
“Hunger strike,” says Boone. It might be a joke.  
  
Benny gives him an exaggerated shrug. _Again, why?_  
  
“They won’t be willing to lose both of us. And I want you alive, even if they don’t.”  
  
Oh, that’s nice. Even this lump ain’t totally immune to Benny’s charms.  
  
“Mm-mm,” Benny sing-songs, making the fruit do a tempting little dance. If it had hips, they’d be swerving. “Mm-mm- _hmm_ -mm!”  
  
Boone frowns at him.  
  
“Six wants to put a bullet in your brain. I’m not taking that from her.”  
  
Yeah, that tracks. The courier can’t get her revenge on Benny if the Legion kills him before she gets there. Still, the lump is warming up to him.  
  
Benny gives up on sharing breakfast. If Boone wants to let perfectly good food go to waste at a time like this, that’s his own problem. Benny just wishes he didn’t have to look at it. And smell it. His own hunger is suddenly a lot harder to dismiss with an untouched meal staring him in the face.  
  
Benny needs another distraction. But he’s already heard Boone: The Early Years, and he ain’t counting on Boone to deliver volume two. The cat’s swaying where he sits, looking tired and ill. The bridge of his nose is starting to peel, and he’s got that smell of fever-sweat. He might have been on the level about his lack of appetite.  
  
Benny decides Boone could use a distraction, too.  
  
“Hm,” Benny says, and holds up three fingers.  
  
Boone looks confused.  
  
Benny waves the three fingers at him.  
  
“Three?”  
  
_That’s it, baby, you’re on the right track! Three_ _**words**_.  
  
He puts his hands to his mouth and pushes them out to indicate words escaping.  
  
Boone’s brow furrows slightly.  
  
“Are you going to throw up?”  
  
“Nn!” He holds his hands facing each other and makes them talk to each other, first the right, then the left.  
  
“I don’t know what you’re doing,” says Boone.

Benny huffs and grumbles a “ _Nnngh!”_ sound with a lot more frustrated oomph in it. Ain’t this dope ever played charades? You’d think it’d be Boone’s favorite game, since you don’t even have to grunt to get through it.

He tries again, this time maneuvering his hands to make the gesture for an old fashioned movie camera, and that gets the juices flowing.

“Coffee grinder?”

 _No!_ “Mmph!”

“Pencil sharpener.”

Benny shakes his head and spins the camera crank more emphatically, like it’ll make any damn difference.

“Fishing rod.”

“ _Nnnngh._ ” Benny rolls his eyes back in his head. Now they’re technically playing charades, only to have Boone trying to _figure out_ they’re playing charades. This is a fucking farce.

“A...kitten,” Boone finally says, squinting. “When they paw things?” A long, long pause. “Meow?”

Benny shrugs his shoulders hard. _What the fuck is_ _a_ _meow?_ He knows what kittens are, vaguely, but as far as he knows they went extinct decades ago. Benny sits down hard, hanging his head.

“I—had a kitten, once,” Boone says haltingly, apparently in an uncharacteristic sharing mood. It’s probably the fever baking his brain. “Bakersfield had some. In the vault. It was a ghoul.”

Benny looks at Boone hopefully; if charades are out, at least story time is back in.

“It’s dead now.”

Benny huffs through his nose and gives up.  
  
“I’ve never been any good at games like this,” says Boone.  
  
_Yeah, no shit._  
  
“I’m better at football,” Boone offers. “You know football?”  
  
“Mm-hmm.” Benny used to play with Swank and Tommy when they were kids, but they never had much chance to get good at it. Feet don’t stay fresh long after a kill, and the longer ya punt ‘em around, the worse shape they wind up in. They ain’t too aerodynamic, either.  
  
Besides, it ain’t any more workable than word games right now, anyway. Benny picks up one of the mutfruit and lobs it at Boone’s chest. It bounces off and lands on the rug between them.  
  
“I wasn’t suggesting we play catch,” says Boone.  
  
Benny shrugs. He’s bored. He’s frustrated. He ain’t used to being the one who grunts while Boone talks.  
  
He goes back to picking at the tape.  
  
Boone lets him, for a while. Then, finally, he says, “You want to hear a dirty joke?”  
  
Benny’s fingers still.  
  
“A bighorner falls in the mud.”  
  
Benny snickers. It’s _so_ bad. Maybe Boone is secretly a comedic genius, telling jokes so unfunny that the lack of comedy is the punchline.  
  
Maybe he’s been in this goddamn tent too long.  
  
“My wife told me that joke,” Boone says morosely.  
  
“Mm?” says Benny, hoping to encourage him. Was Wifey funny? Was she stacked? Hell, did she have a name? He’ll take anything.  
  
But Boone goes silent.  
  
Without much hope, Benny makes a dirty gesture.  
  
“Have some respect for the dead,” says Boone.  
  
Does that mean he won’t talk about his love life? Fine, if he won’t, Benny will. He does a complicated pantomime of losing his virginity to a whore in Reno. Boone watches, first impassive, then curious, eyes narrowing as he tries to follow the more abstract gestures.  
  
“How does that work?” Boone asks, just as Benny’s getting to the good part.  
  
Benny repeats himself, slower. He has to get creative with his hands tied, but a glance at the guards—who are staring at him in horrified fascination—tells him that he’s made himself clear.  
  
“But where do your legs go?” asks Boone.  
  
Oh, Christ, this poor schmuck’s never done anything more interesting than missionary. Under better circumstances, Benny would take the time to educate him, but as it is gestures will have to do.

By the time Benny finishes his “story,” Boone’s eyebrows have climbed halfway up his scalp.

“I’ve never done _that_ ,” he says.

Benny shrugs. Most people haven’t, but Chastity was a real professional. Wanted to make Benny’s first time special. And boy, did that work out for him. Cost him every cap he had, but it was worth it.

“I’ve done other things,” Boone admits.

“Mm-hmm?” Benny says eagerly.

“ _Before_ Carla.”

Is Carla Wifey? That’s okay. Benny doesn’t need to hear about Carla if Boone ain’t ready to talk about her. A story is a story, no matter who it’s about.

“I was seeing someone in Basic,” says Boone. “Crispin. He died in combat. Fiends.”

Oh. Is that what he calls a story?

“Then I was with Decker. Corporal. She also died in combat. Khans.”

And Benny can’t even ask for any racy details because Boone wants him to respect the dead.

“I probably would have had better luck dating outside the army,” says Boone. His talents ain’t just reserved for bad jokes, they also extend to understatement.

As much fun as it is to hear about the string of corpses Boone’s left in his wake, the topic sort of grates in a life-or-death situation. Benny tries to get that across in gestures and throaty grunts.

“Have I ever been with anyone who lived?”

Oh, sure, _that_ he understands but “three words” and “movie” is beyond his grasp? But Benny nods so hard his head tries to pop off anyway.

“Yes.”

A tense, reluctant beat. Benny waits.

“Manny.”

That ain’t helpful, since he don’t know this ‘Manny’ from a hole in the ground. Benny gestures for Boone to continue.

“He...was before Carla.” There’s difficulty getting the name out this time, like it’s trying to force its way through a closed up throat.

Benny nods, playing up how interested he is to motivate the other guy not to clam up.

“And after.”

It’s hard to make a sympathetic noise, but Benny takes a stab at it anyway. So a widower falls into bed with an ex after his wife and the Legion made the beast with a thousand backs. So what? That’s the most understandable thing he’s ever heard.

“And…” Boone’s eyes slide away. “During.”

Oh! So it’s like that, is it? _Spicy!_ Benny waggles his eyebrows. Was it a one-time three-way thing? An open marriage? Bigamy? Or just some good old fashioned double-dealing hanky-panky?

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Of course he doesn’t. _C’moooon_. Benny whines in the back of his throat. This is the most interesting Boone’s been today. If his fever breaks, he might not get this chatty again—and if his brain boils so long he dies of it, Benny _definitely_ won’t get closure on these tantalizing little biographical nuggets.

“It was a mistake,” says Boone.

Okay. Everybody makes mistakes. Benny gestures for him to go on.

“I…” Boone’s shoulders slump. “I guess I might as well tell you. We’re both going to die here, anyway.”

Oh. Okay. That’s cheery. Awkwardly, Benny pats Boone on the knee. He’d like to be comforting. If he had his mouth back, he’d give a rousing speech. But he can’t. And Boone ain’t stupid. He knows the Legion ain’t interested in doing more than keeping them barely alive, and they ain’t all got the best grasp of the limitations of the human body. If Boone’s fever ain’t enough to cook him, if they don’t accidentally starve to death or dry into husks, then someone will slip up during a torture session. They’re in the hands of a bunch of meatheads who don’t believe in modern medicine. And their only chance at rescue is a courier who’s fucked off to Utah and wants Benny six feet under anyway.

And his nails are worrying at the tape again.

“Stop that,” says Boone. “You want to know about Carla? She was—”

The tent flap opens. Benny goes through his usual routine of hope ( _is it her?_ ), disappointment ( _it ain’t her)_ , and curiosity ( _it’s some broad in a slave collar with a guard dragging her by the elbow, what’s that about?_ ), all overlaid with frustration at the interruption. Carla was what? Tall? Pretty? Bashful? Crabby? Thrifty? Leggy? Sharp? Did she have _any_ human attributes?!

But he doesn’t get to find out if she had any personality traits before all her quirks got replaced with ‘dead,’ because the dame in the collar intrudes. Benny almost makes a displeased noise. The guard probably won’t like that, so he stuffs it down instead.

The woman stops in front of them and gently tugs her arm out of the guard’s grip. It suggests she’s practiced at not making any sudden moves that might offend her captors. On her other arm a basket hangs by its handle, filled with all sorts of goodies Benny can’t get a decent gander at without craning his neck.

The guard indicates Benny and Boone without any real interest, and she cuts her eyes his direction with a look that should set the Legion goon on fire. _If only._

“I understand one of you is sick,” she says stiffly, adjusting the basket. “But I’m not allowed to examine you, so you’ll both receive treatment. I hope neither of you have broc flower or xander root allergies.”

Benny can’t say that Boone is the only one who needs medicine, and he’s selfish enough not to bother trying anyway. If she had the know-how to make a healing poultice, that would be more help to Boone but not much to Benny. But she ain’t got poultices. Healing _powder_ has to be ingested, which—hey, hey!—means she’ll take off the tape.

(Unless—and he tries not to think about the possibility but there it is, floating at the top of his brain like oil on water—healing powder can be taken rectally and he don’t know about it. His sphincter seizes up at the thought.)

She moves to give Boone a dose of the goods, but he turns his head away like a nincompoop. The defiance don’t do him any good, of course. The guard gets up behind him, puts him in a headlock, and holds his nose until Boone gets loopy enough from holding his breath that his jaw can get pried open.

Benny don’t put up a fight, though he squeaks in surprise when the broad pulls a straight razor out of her basket and slashes at the tape with sudden, terrifying precision. The Legionary rips the tape off and takes out what feels like half of Benny’s hair with it, but he’s too grateful to care. He spits the wad of cloth halfway across the tent and breathes free.

“ _Thank_ y—” He don’t get more than that out before his mouth is full of powder and somebody gets a fistful of his hair to hold his head still. The dame sighs, picks up the cloth from where he spat it on the ground, and stuffs it back in his face before he can blink.

And now, joy of joys, the gag is full of _sand_. It ain’t fair. It just ain’t fair. This shitty situation ain’t allowed to get _worse_. If he weren’t a tough guy, he might fucking cry. Instead, he hears the rip of fresh tape and resigns himself to an unjust world.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "This story will be a short, smutty palette cleanser while I fiddle with other plotty things," I said to myself. Here we are, twelve thousand words later and still no sex... _why am I like this_?
> 
>  **Advisories** : dubcon cuddling, awkward boners, mild violence, off screen torture, severe dehydration, silly words for erections
> 
> This fic's tone is something, huh? Is "slapstick whump" a genre?

They sleep again. It’s another cold night, but Benny doesn’t press himself to Boone’s side. He sees that angry scarlet burn, the way Boone pretends it’s nothing but winces any time he breathes too hard. Benny ain’t desperate enough to put his own needs over that, not yet. Boone’s being nice, but he’ll still give Benny another black eye with his rock-hard cranium if he’s pushed.

So Benny lies there, feeling alone and sorry for himself. It’s torture, being this close and not touching.

Torture is a word Benny uses too much. Torture is any mild inconvenience. Torture is delayed gratification. Torture is meaningless. He promised himself he’d stop using that word for mundane annoyances the first time the Legion strung him up by his wrists and scourged his back raw. And again when they forced him to his knees with a rifle to his head and made him beg for his life. And after that, when they shoved his head in a water trough a dozen times. That was torture.

But this? This is _torture_.

“Benny,” Boone says from out of the dark. There’s clarity in his voice, and he ain’t putting off heat like a private radiator anymore. The fever’s broken.

Now things will get back to normal. Benny grunts halfheartedly in Boone’s direction.

“It’s cold,” says Boone.

Yeah, it’s fucking cold. What of it?

“I’m still not too macho to snuggle.”

Don’t do me any favors, Benny thinks, knowing he’s being ridiculous. He should take the offer. There’s only room for one stubborn asshole in this tent, and Boone has the monopoly.

Benny was being a shit when he told Boone he was a cuddler, but that don’t make it untrue. In times of stress, Benny likes to be held. As far as vices go, it’s been easy enough to live with up to now. But going on three weeks in captivity, he’s been beaten, he’s been manhandled, he’s been roughed up. He ain’t been held. And he’s dying for it. Goddamn it.

“Benny,” Boone says again. “Get over here.”

Benny flicks his fingers, brushing against Boone’s sunburned arm. Boone hisses in pain.

Yeah, he ain’t rubbing his wool jacket all over that.

“It’s just a sunburn,” says Boone.

Yeah, sure it is. Benny huffs and turns over on his back.

“Fine.” Boone hooks his leg around Benny’s knees and hauls himself over.

“Hm!”

Without his arms free, Boone can’t control where he lands. He ends up on top of Benny, squashing him flat.

This ain’t the kind of cuddling Benny was looking for.

Already struggling to breathe around the gag, now Benny has every last ounce of air driven out of his lungs by the slab of meat on top of him. Goddamn, Boone’s heavy. Is that solid muscle, or has he had his bones replaced with iron bars?

“Sorry. Miscalculated.” Boone tries to get his knees under him, but loses his balance and cracks his shoulder into Benny’s chin.

“Mm!” Not helping! Benny twists, but he can’t throw Boone off. On the raw edge of panic, he digs his heels in, thrusting up with his hips just as Boone finds a way to shift his center of gravity. That causes friction, the kind that shouldn’t get _anybody’s_ motor running under the circumstances—but a telltale spark, an unwelcome tingle, jolts Benny’s Little Chairman awake. Christ, this just gets worse!

In the process of getting up, Boone topples forward again, slamming Benny back into the ground.

“Just let me—” Boone starts, turning his head so his nose finds a nesting place behind Benny’s ear. Goose flesh erupts down his neck, along his throat, clear down to his fucking shoulder. All the hairs on the back of Benny’s neck stand up; downstairs, Mr. Happy gets in on the act and independently decides a half-chub ain’t good enough. Only the whole enchilada will do.

“Mm!”

“Be still.”

Yeah, sure, just lie there and take it. Benny tries. He keeps still while Boone plants his knees and rocks back to an upright position, straddling Benny at the waist.

Now, finally, Benny can draw a full breath, and with the return of precious oxygen, his panic subsides.

He looks up at Boone, whose face is half-shadowed by flickering torchlight. Even so, Benny catches a look of surprise. And more than surprise.

“Mm?” Benny’s eyes dip to Boone’s waist, and lower to the tent in his pants. This is turning into a regular military parade, what with everybody standing at attention.

The guards make their move then, each seizing one of Boone’s shoulders and dragging him away from Benny. Boone growls low in his throat, but doesn’t fight them.

“It was a mistake keeping these two degenerates here together,” one says.

There’s that goddamn word again. Like awkward boners never happen in the Legion?

No one mentions that the mighty Caesar was the one who decided to leave them both rotting in the same corner. For questioning Caesar’s wisdom, this mook should be signing himself up for the next public flogging.

Benny would tell him. But nobody asks Benny.

They drag Boone out of the tent, leaving Benny alone. He sits up, wondering if he’ll have time to do anything useful while he’s unsupervised. Elsewhere and elsewhen, he might do something about the starch in Junior’s spine, but jerking off will cost him precious moisture.

Besides, before he can do more than look around, one of the guards pops back in. Without a word, he backhands Benny across the face, then resumes his post by the tent flap.

Benny hits the ground and stays there. Pain splinters through his skull and takes care of his erection quicker than anything else could. For a second, he’s terrified the son of a bitch broke his nose, but a sniffle shows everything’s still in working order. He decides the taste of blood is coming from his lip. That’s okay. He can live with a busted lip.

The coppery taste provides such an interesting contrast to the grit between his teeth. Benny can’t tell how much of that is sand, and how much is healing powder he ain’t been able to swallow without the help of a drink of water. It probably won’t do him any good just sitting in his mouth like that. But it doesn’t matter, anyway.

He wonders where Boone is. What’s happening to him. If he’s lucky, they’ve just thrown him in a cage somewhere. If it was Benny they grabbed, they probably would have put him in a sack and tossed him in the river. But Boone was the one on top, and the night guards made a snap decision.

Benny hopes they remember that Boone is the one the courier wants alive. He hopes they don’t rethink things too much and come after _him_ instead, but he also hopes Boone survives the night.

Boone ain’t so bad. No style, no charm, no humor worth mentioning. If Benny met him on the Strip, he’d pass him by. But he’s the closest thing Benny has to a friend right now, and having someone to pass the time with makes all this almost bearable.

So Boone’s probably dead already. Benny ain’t allowed to have anything nice.

* * *

By the time the sun is up and the camp is starting to stir, Benny thinks he might be dying.

That’s another word he uses when he shouldn’t. _I’m dyin’ here. You’re killing me._

It ain’t a joke this time.

How long without water? More than a day. And he was already down to his last clip. Does that metaphor even make sense?

His thoughts are fuzzy. His mouth is dry. His eyes feel gritty when he blinks, so he keeps them shut.

Usually, Benny sits up when the guards go through their morning shift change. Tries to keep track of things. Storing up information for an escape attempt that’ll never happen.

Today he stays down. It hurts to move. Muscle cramps. He’s had those for days, and ignored them. Now it’s too much. His head pounds. Worse than the worst hangover that ever slammed him back into bed.

Benny always thought he’d go down to a bullet or a knife. The kind of death he could meet head-on. Not this. Drifting and hurting and too weak to move.

Either he sleeps or time passes without him. Next thing Benny knows, Caesar is up and maybe feeling like his good old warlording self again, because he’s reading somebody the riot act. Benny ain’t got the energy to listen in, but dimly hopes one of the guards fucked up bad enough that heads will roll. Literally.

“Is he still gagged?” Caesar asks, mildly surprised. He sounds close. Caesar has never deigned to cross over to Benny’s side of the tent before. Benny opens one gummy eye, then the other, to find Caesar standing over him with a knife.

Oh... Caesar has a knife.

“Do I have to do everything myself?” the old man snarls. He grabs Benny’s lapel and hefts him up. Benny is boneless. He should struggle. He should fight. But he can’t even get himself together enough to track the knife as it slashes toward his face.

Caesar slices through the duct tape in a single stroke. He also slices Benny’s cheek. He ain’t as precise as that healer broad, but then, it’s hard to do delicate surgery with a hunting knife.

As the tape is stripped away, Benny wonders if he even has any lips left. This would be a great time to spit in Caesar’s face, if saliva was still a thing his mouth could do. At least he can spit out the rag, but it sticks to his tongue and the dried blood on his lip, so instead of flying into Caesar’s face, it just sort of flops out and hangs limply down Benny’s chin.

Caesar drops him, and Benny ain’t even sure his show of defiance registered.

“Feed that and bring me the other one,” Caesar orders.

Feed. Benny honestly wonders if he’s dreaming. One last gasp of a dying brain, a little comfort before he cashes in his chips.

Then, what feels like an eternity later, there’s movement. A hand forcing him to sit up. An arm around his shoulders. A dipper pressed to his lips. Water.

Benny drinks, chokes, tries to keep drinking anyway. The dipper pulls away from his mouth, and Benny strains to chase it down.

“Take it easy.” Boone’s voice. Boone is there. Boone is holding him. Huh. Boone has arms.

Benny licks his lips, for all the good that does. One sip of water brings him back to himself, but it ain’t enough to keep him there.

“More,” he says, his voice rough. It doesn’t sound like he’s pleading, but he is.

Boone gives him another drink. This time, he gets it down the right pipe.

Caesar has assembled his guards, and he’s giving them the dressing down of a lifetime.

“These are _hostages_! Do you not understand the meaning of the word? They only have value as long as they stay alive!”

No one wants to tell the boss that he’s the one who should have been paying attention.

Boone’s smart enough to get his own share of water while they’re unchaperoned, but he keeps the dipper coming back to Benny’s mouth. Benny drinks until he’s sure his eyeballs float. He’d swear he can feel all his internal organs waking up, like a Securitron’s systems powering up one by one.

He indulges in a brief fantasy of Yes-Man rolling through the camp and mowing Caesar down. But things ain’t likely to turn around for him that much.

He slumps against Boone’s side, still too weak to sit up on his own. Maybe using that as an excuse to keep contact. Maybe relishing the feeling of Boone’s left arm slung around him, maybe more than he’d like to admit.

He watches Boone dip into the bucket for more water. There’s a bloody strip around his wrist where the rope’s been, surrounded by a bruise that’s almost black toward the middle, fading to yellow around the edges. Benny’s sleeves give him some protection, but Boone’s...

...got...

...his hands free.

Benny looks at the unguarded tent flap. _All_ of Caesar’s guards are occupied. He nudges Boone sharply with his elbow.

“Baby,” Benny mutters under his breath, “make like a tree.”

“You telling me to leave you like this?” Boone asks.

“Why the hell not?” At least one of them would be free. Boone could go for help if he’s suddenly so interested. He could go get the goddamn courier. And maybe the stupid skirts would be more careful with Benny if he was their only marker on the table.

Boone considers.

“I wouldn’t get far,” he says. “This camp is full of Legion.”

“You’re a sniper. Be stealthy.”

“Be more fun to fight my way out.”

Benny is shocked to hear that Boone not only knows the word fun, but can use it in a sentence.

“If that’s your idea of fun, I’m surprised you didn’t start busting heads the second they cut you loose.”

“Thought about it,” Boone admits. He gives Benny another drink, and Benny feels stupidly grateful that the dumb shmuck won’t leave him after all.

They polish off yesterday’s mutfruit, devouring them down to the core. The meat has been trampled into the dirt, and may or may not have spoiled in the time it’s been sitting out, but they eat that, too. Boone gives Benny another drink.

While Benny’s drinking, Caesar’s performance review breaks up, and one of the guards comes over to them with a length of rope.

“Hands,” he orders Boone. At least he’s doing his ordering from the front, so Boone won’t have to have his hands tied behind his back anymore.

“Can you sit up?” Boone asks Benny, looking resigned.

“When I figure it out, I’ll clue you in.” He’s still dizzy, and his muscles don’t want to obey him, but at least the worst of the headache is starting to ease. Benny feels like maybe he’s going to live.

He forces himself upright, swaying, and immediately feels something spasm in his back. What is that, a muscle or a kidney? He pitches over with a pained yelp.

The guard cranes his neck to see Benny over Boone’s shoulder. As he does, Boone cracks him in the face with the ladle.

It ain’t the best moment to pick a fight. The rest of the guards, who were ready to file out of the tent, swarm over Boone in a heartbeat. He gets a few more hits before someone gets the ladle away from him, and then his arms are pinned and he’s lashing out with his head in one direction and his knees in another.

From his position on the ground, Benny kicks what he can reach, but he stops when a foot comes down on his ankle. He decides it’s smarter to get out of trampling range instead of trying to help.

The guards get Boone subdued, and then look to Caesar for guidance. Caesar’s got his face in his hand, muttering to himself, but he snaps to attention when he realizes his order to keep the hostages alive has confused the mooks. He strides over to look Boone in the eye.

“I admire your spirit, but I have to say, you’re not that bright.”

Boone spits in Caesar’s face. Benny’s proud of him, but also jealous.

Caesar ain’t impressed. He punches Boone in the stomach, hard enough to trigger his fancy sonic gauntlet. The shock wave rattles Benny’s teeth and makes all the guards regret pressing in so close. It’s more than even Boone can take without flinching. He folds over with a sound Benny’s never heard a human being make before.

So maybe Benny’s not so jealous after all.

Boone ends up on the ground, curled up in a ball and wheezing. His hands are behind his back again, because the dope can’t play along for five minutes to win himself even the slightest advantage.

At least they leave the bucket, still half-full of water. From where Benny’s sitting, this day could have turned out worse.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Advisories** : Light sexual fantasy, light triggering/panic response (no panic attack), Benny generally being lecherous and kind of gross because he’s Benny, a very brief suicide reference, angst

Benny assumes everybody’s forgotten about the order to feed them, but with water nearby, he can stand to starve a while longer. It fills up a stomach almost as good as food does, especially after so long without it. He chooses to paint his past rosy, but truth is, sometimes things got real tough in the Boot Riders. Camps got raided. Deathclaws played tug-of-war with the tribe's kills and won. Times like that, Benny tightened his belt, filled up on water, and was thankful for that much.

But before he can properly resign himself to an old fashioned home cooked meal of wishful thinking, a kid shows up with a couple clay mugs of molerat stew.

This kid’s got red hair and freckles and a gap between his front teeth. The spitting image of the all-American wholesomeness of the terrifying little monsters in pre-war cereal ads. Benny’s never seen him before.

“Where’s the other kid?” he asks.

“Asellio is in disgrace for being insufficiently attentive,” says the kid.

“I’m sorry, his name is what now?”

“Asellio,” the kid repeats.

“And what’s your name?”

“Marc.”

Okay. Sure. Ass-holeo and Marc. Benny ain’t here to question the Legion’s naming conventions.

Marc gives Benny a mug of soup, and helps Boone with the other one. Benny decides he likes this kid. He won’t last long in the Legion, giving a shit about other people, but for now, Benny’s happy to benefit from that naive goodwill. He tries not to think too hard about how the Legion will toss the kid straight into a grave if he don't toughen up in a few years. After all, he’s got more immediate problems to worry about.

The stew is mostly broth, but that’s as much as Benny can handle right now. It’s all he can do to keep down the water he’s been guzzling.

When the new kid beats feet, he still leaves the bucket. Benny edges towards it. When no one objects, he drags it over to hold in his lap, hunched over it like a ghoul turning feral.

His head is clearer now. He’s more coordinated. He hurts less. And he’d like to fucking keep it that way.

After Benny has another drink, he offers the dipper to Boone.

“I’m okay,” says Boone.

“Are you?” Benny sets the bucket aside, still within reach. He collapses on the ground near Boone—more back to back than beside this time, but they can still look at each other. “I bet I missed a hell of a party last night.”

“Broke some fingers.” Boone shrugs. “Not my shooting hand.”

“Fuck,” Benny whispers.

“Could have been worse.”

“Oh, yeah, sure. I know that. I just meant, ‘Fuck, he can still fire a gun. Now we just have to get our hands on a rifle.’”

Boone huffs out something that might be a laugh. “Shouldn’t be too hard.”

“Piece of cake,” Benny agrees. “Goddamn, I’d kill for a Fancy Lad.”

“Not real cake?” asks Boone.

“What, is a Fancy Lad just a figment of my imagination?”

“Have you...never had cake?”

“Yes,” Benny says with a puzzled frown. “I eat snack cakes all the goddamn time.”

“ _Cake_ ,” Boone insists.

“Baby, are you sure you’re all right?”

“Never mind,” says Boone. He gives Benny a funny look, hesitates, and finally says, “Didn’t think you’d still be here.”

“You mean after they dragged you off for some ‘quality time’? Buddy, neither did I,” says Benny.

“Glad they didn’t let you die.”

“You and me both, pal.”

Boone grunts, but the tone is one Benny hasn’t heard before. An _I meant it_ grunt. God damn, he’s learning to differentiate these caveman noises now.

“Chuckles, you tryin’ to be open and sincere?” Benny asks with genuine surprise, and only a thin veneer of gentle ribbing. “Sprain anything in the attempt? Need a sling?”

The other guy stares at him, about half exasperation, half impatience and point one percent reluctant amusement. Benny’s learning to tell flat looks apart too. What next, telepathy?

“Sorry,” Benny says. “I won’t step on your grand confession next time, cross my black little heart and hope to—cry. Want to take another swing?”

Boone’s gaze glides away, seeking tent canvas instead of Benny’s face. “Just saying, wouldn’t want to be stuck here alone.”

“Hey, I don’t want to be here at all,” Benny jokes, immediately breaking his promise for the sake of a gag.

Boone gives up on the conversation. Now Benny feels bad for being a smartass. He shouldn’t be turning his nose up at any olive branches right about now.

“Look,” Benny says, “I don’t wanna say I’m glad you’re here, considering where here is, but...I don’t want to die alone. So I’m glad you’re here, too.”

“We’re not going to die here,” says Boone. Either he's pulled some fresh optimism out of his ass or, now that he's not feverish, he's remembered not to be bleak when Benny can hear it. It's no contest which option Benny's betting on. Still, nice of the guy to lie.

“ _You’re_ not gonna die,” Benny reminds him. “Your courier friend is on her way. And as for me, at least she won't hang me on a cross, yeah?”

“Yeah.” It’s less a grunt this time, more a murmur. Boone is too decent to be glib about Benny’s impending death, but he’s too much of a realist to argue against it.

Benny’s known all along he ain’t walking out of this place. It’s easy to trick himself into thinking there’s some escape hatch, some miracle, some cheat, some _something_ that’ll get him out of this mess. But when he’s being honest, Benny knows better.

He’ll die in this tent, and every instinct that makes him fight to survive is just drawing things out. Prolonging the torture. He’s never getting out. He’ll never see the Strip again. Never see Tommy dance, or hear Swank grind his teeth during an argument. Never taste a good scotch, or sleep in his own bed.

“I want to go home.” Benny’s never said that before. Now the words slip out against his will, and he doesn’t even know how to make them into a joke. He can’t even really tell which home he means: the Strip, the Mojave, the comforting embrace of his ma, now long dead. They’re all fighting for a patch of real estate inside him. He wants them all, deep down, ‘cause they represent the safety of _anywhere but here_ and _anywhen but now_.

“You’re not going to die alone,” Boone promises, answering not Benny’s words but his subtext.

“Gee, thanks,” says Benny. He gives Boone a pained smile that won’t quite grow into a smirk. “I’m touched, really.” And in a way, he is. That’s gotta be the nicest thing anybody’s said to him in weeks. Not that the competition is steep.

“And if I have any choice in the matter, you won't suffer. I’ll make it quick,” Boone adds.

“Thanks, baby, I’ll keep that in mind. I was hoping to die in bed at forty-five with a busty broad on each side, but if that ain’t an option, I guess you’ll do.”

“Really.” Boone sighs.

“Well, they don’t _have_ to be broads. That’s a preference, not a requirement. I wouldn’t throw a pair of fellas out, either, busty or not.” Or any other gender configuration and bust size, for that matter. It’s the ‘gently ushering him off the mortal coil at a ripe old age’ element that’s the important part.

Instead, he’s gonna croak here, at thirty and not even in a bed, with only this sun roasted tomato to keep him company. He’s barely middle aged! God, that’s depressing.

“You’ll get me and Six,” Boone says. “One of each.”

Benny’s brain stutters to a halt before he realizes Boone’s still talking about murder, not sex.

The gears in his head get going again after a second, but now they’re spinning in the wrong direction. They go back to the Tops, and that back-from-the-dead broad who strolled onto his casino floor like she owned the place. A woman with a scarred face and a bad attitude, and a tantalizing set of curves her armor couldn’t quite hide.

His brain wanders to his bed, and her there, back arched, tits out, running her fingers through his hair and screaming his name. Boone comes along for the ride. Double the fun. For all Benny’s experience, that’s one combination he’s never tried.

Benny likes women. Likes them a lot. More than what’s healthy, sometimes. Pretty faces and nice cans have led him astray more than once.

With men, he’s more choosy. It’s not that he ain’t interested, but broads fall for him easier, put up with his bullshit a little better, and Benny likes when things come easy. With men, the push and pull is different. It becomes a whole production. A man has to be something special to be worth the effort.

Boone’s nothing special. He looks like he’s been chipped out of stone by an amateur sculptor with a broken chisel, and even if he was the second coming of Montgomery Clift, the shaved head would ruin the effect. He’s almost humorless. A terrible conversationalist. Stoic. Benny doesn’t do stoic.

Still, he’s got a soldier’s build. Broad shoulders. Those arms. Benny would bet he’s got stamina, if nothing else. 

Not that he’ll ever get the chance to find out, but thinking about it doesn’t cost anything. 

“What,” Boone says, which is reasonable given that Benny’s been looking at him for a decent length of silence.

“Nothin’.” He shrugs and Boone makes a brief, guttural sound of pleasure in the back of his throat, almost too quiet to hear. “Sorry, what was that?”

“Itchy,” is all Boone will say.

Ah. That sunburn must be starting to peel now. Benny offers his shoulder to scratch on. That’s one thing wool is good for, besides working up such a sweat that Benny thinks fondly of desert-adapted tribal armor when it’s hot like this.

“Thanks,” Boone says, rubbing his arms so hard against Benny’s back, he almost knocks them both over. He must be shedding strips of dead skin. It probably hurts like hell, but it’s better than the itching.

“Not a problem,” says Benny. “I never had a burn that bad, myself, but I’ve seen worse. Back in the old days. There was this—” He breaks off when Boone shoves back against him hard enough to knock his teeth together.

“Sorry,” says Boone. “Go on.”

“No, I know you don’t want to hear this. Let me shut up for a while.” Benny’s only rattling on out of residual panic from being gagged so long. He knows he has nothing to say. He just can’t stop saying it. Better to use his mouth while it can still motor, hey?

“I don’t mind,” says Boone, still scratching. “Talking’s your thing.”

“Baby, you’re too good to me,” Benny murmurs.

“Not your baby.”

“You could be if you wanted to,” Benny says.

It’s automatic. He doesn’t even really mean anything by it. But Boone freezes up, and Benny curses inwardly. The last thing he wants is to offend his only ally. The peace between them feels fragile, and Boone is awkward and stilted enough without adding a proposition to the mix. Coming on to him is a rookie mistake, even if he was what you might call responsive to the close physical contact the night before. That didn’t necessarily have anything to do with Benny. Hell, some dicks will salute a stiff breeze.

“Don’t pay any attention, baby, I’m just talking,” Benny mumbles. “You know, it’s my thing. Not—talking _about_ my thing, just—”

“Talking,” Boone finishes. He’s quiet. Then, with a hint of humor, he says, “So, what are you, some kind of sex fiend on top of everything else?”

“Did the miming not tip you off? Maybe I should have made the tits bigger.”

“Next time.”

“Yeah.” _Next time_. Benny gulps without meaning to, and infuses some extra pep in his voice. “Remind me to also throw in a dick or two to keep things interesting.”

“At least ten.”

Benny laughs, partly to shake off the horrible thought of being stifled again, Boone gets back to scratching, and the awkward moment passes.

Now that he’s on the topic, though, he can’t quite circle away from the thought of sex. Mostly because when he tries, the only other thought waiting to spring is sand on his tongue and the _eau de sweat-sock_ of that god damn gag. Suddenly he’s thirsty again, and he ladles out a gulp of water to chase away the phantom taste.

So, sex. Sex, sex, sexy, sex. His thoughts are racing so hard around that track called _gag_ he can’t conjure up any fantasy figures, no Vera Keyes, no Paul Newman. Shit, he can’t even remember what Betty Boop looks like, and she was his _first crush_. (Well, her and Bugs Bunny in drag, but he still ain’t quite unpacked that one. It ain’t the drag that keeps him up nights, but the rabbit bit.)

He casts around the tent for a distraction, but there’s only one person here he can stand to think about without tipping over the edge into a full blown panic. Boone. Sure. Boone. Sex with Boone, why not? Still no Montgomery Clift, but maybe climbing up to the Lee Marvin rung in this current state of affairs. Not as high as some, but not as low as—oh, Gary Cooper, let’s say. (Just as wooden, though.)

Yeah, Benny could maybe go for Boone, if the wind was blowing right and he loosened up a little. He ain’t bad to look at, at least, and even if Benny couldn’t stand the sight of him...well, that ain’t a problem from behind. For more adventurous positions, a paper bag covers a multitude of sins, and if Boone's opposed, eyelids do just as well.

If they weren’t enemies, and they were somewhere else, in better shape mentally and physically...yeah, he could imagine picking Boone up. Buying him a drink. Taking him up to Benny’s room. Fooling around. Cracking a few jokes, having a few laughs. Getting sloppy drunk and pinned against the bar and railed with his cheek pressed into the whiskey-stained wood.

(Wait a second, since when will Boone top? This fantasy’s jumped the tracks. All the best ones do, but he wasn’t expecting it this time. Maybe Boone’s a little higher up than Lee Marvin, then.)

Benny looks over his shoulder, but Boone’s turned a little so all he can see is the back of his beret. Benny angles himself better to fix that.

“Can I be frank?”

“Only if I get to be Dean,” Boone says, deadpan as ever. There’s a long beat while Benny stares at him in astonishment, and he adds, “I refuse to be Joey Bishop.”

The joke catches him so off guard the question he planned to ask drops out of his head. Benny raises his eyebrows at the fact this cat knows anything at all about vintage Vegas glamour, much less Joey fuckin’ Bishop. “Not to denigrate the Chairman of the Board, but I always thought of myself as more of a Sammy.”

“You’re not that talented.”

“Baby, _nobody_ is that talented,” Benny graciously allows. It’s fair enough. When it comes to dancing, two left feet would be an improvement over Benny’s skills. He couldn’t pay somebody to carry a tune in a bucket _for_ him. Sure as shit he couldn’t manage both activities at the same time, and with a glass eye yet. “You think I’m better suited to Frank?”

__

Boone thinks about that. “Lawford.”

__

“Hey! Now you’re just insulting me. I got nothing in common with that cold fish.”

__

“Right. What was I thinking.” Boone’s voice is bone dry, but Benny’s learned to tell dry-dry from joking-dry. He’s turning into a regular Boone whisperer over here. “Jerry.”

__

“You really know how to hurt a guy, you know that?” He only half means it, but he _does_ half mean it. “The skirt—MacClaine— _that_ comparison I would have accepted. But the one-two punch of Lawford and Lewis? _Oof._ Insult my mother next, why don’tcha?”

__

Boone’s silence shifts into something Benny recognizes as hesitation. He clears his throat.

__

“Tell you the truth,” says Boone, “I like Jerry. A little goes a long way,” he adds quickly. “But.”

__

“Buuuuut?” 

__

“He’s...funny.” 

__

He says it like he’s confessing his deepest shame, so Benny decides not to give him shit for it. Much.

__

“You like silly voices?”

__

Boone grunts.

__

“I tell you, buddy-boy, for a fella doing his best impression of a piece of cardboard, you got facets. Never thought you were the type.”

__

“Physical comedy.” He sounds like a man who’s never cracked a smile in his life. A laugh, considering bursting from his mouth, would give up on living and throw itself off a cliff instead.

__

“So, you’re into the wild flailing?” Benny asks. “Or is it more of the funny-man-fall-down?”

__

“I thought _I_ was making fun of _you_.” Boone’s actually starting to turn pink from embarrassment, so Benny lays off. 

__

“How’d you get to know about it, anyway? Don’t take this the wrong way, but you don’t seem like a, ah, happy-go-lucky musicals and-slash-or comedy kind of guy,” he says with real curiosity. Even for people who do fit his mental image of pre-war film buffs, the comedic stylings of the Rat Pack and company can be something of an acquired taste.

__

He can sort of picture Boone shedding one single tear for the melodrama of _Camille_ , maybe, but the idea of him making with the yuk-yuks while Jerry Lewis takes a tumble down a flight of stairs don’t quite fit in his head.

__

“House is a fan,” says Boone. “You know that. You’re a Chairman.”

__

“You’ve talked to him?”

__

“No. His holotapes are all over the Lucky 38. I get...bored.” He shrugs. “Six likes to travel in small groups. The rest of us stay behind and wait. There’s not much to do besides talk. To each other.”

__

“Which is torture,” Benny finishes for him.

__

Boone gives him a look that’s hard to interpret, and doesn’t directly address the comment.

__

“Holotapes are easier,” he says.

__

“And more interesting, I bet,” Benny agrees.

__

“‘Interesting’ isn’t the issue. I _wish_ she’d adopt someone uninteresting for a change. Someone who could be quiet for five minutes.”

__

“So what’s the problem?” Benny asks, refusing to take the hint.

__

“Arcade talks more than you do. Cass gets drunk and sings. Veronica is...” Boone grimaces. “Cheerful.”

__

“Hell on earth,” says Benny. He’s trying to be sympathetic, really he is, but it doesn’t come easy. Benny would kill for a cheerful broad, a singing drunk, and a...whatever Arcade is. Robot? Talking video poker machine? If it’s chatty, he wants one.

__

Not that he ain’t learning to appreciate the strong silent type, but conversations with Boone are like pulling teeth. And Benny’s no dentist.

__

“They’re good people,” Boone concedes. “Just...too much.”

__

“So you had to get out.” That much Benny can understand. As much as he loves New Vegas, as good as the city treats him, there are times he thinks he’ll climb the walls if he doesn’t get desert under his feet.

__

“Needed to kill something,” says Boone. “Thought I’d find a Legion camp and whittle down their numbers. Done it before. Didn’t expect to end up surrounded this time. Should have known better than to go solo. There’s a reason snipers work in pairs.”

__

“You went to take down a whole Legion camp all by your lonesome, because you were bored?” Benny asks. “Baby, we gotta get you a better hobby. You ever think about taking up macramé?”

__

“My wife liked macramé,” says Boone

__

_And we’re back on the wife._ Understandable enough, but if it turns him into a brick wall again, Benny’s not a fan of the topic. Maybe he can still recover, keep this shit going and move the discussion in a more fruitful direction. “Was there anything she _didn’t_ like?”

__

“Most things.”

__

Benny scribbles that down in the file marked _Carla Boone_ inside his head. _Fucked off with the Legion, told bad jokes, liked macrame, didn’t like much else._

__

“Hated Novac, for one,” Boone continues, breaking the pattern of shutting down the second she comes up in conversation. Maybe this time, Benny will get to hear the whole sordid story that got derailed the last time he cracked this tough nut’s shell open. “Lived there awhile. Me, Carla, Manny.”

__

“No kiddin’? I been to Novac! No offense, pal, but it’s a shithole.” Not a bad stop on his way to Goodsprings. Especially with the benefit of retrospect and a newfound appreciation for roofs and mattresses. But what kind of motel don’t have any empty rooms? He had to share a fucking bed, for Christ’s sake.

__

“It was...fine,” Boone says. “Carla didn’t care for it.”

__

“I gotcha.” Benny gently elbows Boone in the ribs. “But hey, at least I got laid there.”

__

“Anyone I know,” Boone asks. Benny can’t tell if he’s actually interested, but who’s he to turn down a chance to talk?

__

He can’t remember the fella’s name now, if he ever knew it, but he can manage a vague description. “Oh, some side of beef with a beard and a—beret.”

__

Benny’s thoughts stall. Uh oh. If only his mouth had run out of gas before his brain did.

__

“Beret,” Boone says. “Like mine.”

__

“Uhhhh, no? A...purple...one?”

__

“You slept with Manny.”

__

“Well, that’s relative, ain’t it?” Benny blathers. “Did I really sleep with Manny if I didn’t know his name?”

__

He feels Boone move behind him, and Benny cringes away in expectation of another headbutt—or worse.

__

“Now, don’t get sore—”

__

“You slept. With _Manny_.”

__

“He was having a rough time! He needed a shoulder to cry on.” And Benny was more than happy to oblige, especially if it meant not having to sleep on the floor. “He spent the whole time pouring out his troubles about his ex who wouldn’t talk to him—oh, that was _you_.”

__

Boone doesn’t bash Benny’s head in. Instead, he... _laughs_. Genuinely, not that horrible mocking fake laughter he put on for the Legion, but a resonant chuckle.

__

“How’s he doing?” Boone asks.

__

“Better now,” Benny guesses. He’s still waiting for the other shoe to drop, but Boone still doesn’t hit him. He just laughs harder.

__

“If I see him, I’ll tell him you said hello.”

__

“Heh, heh, yeah,” Benny burbles nervously, letting himself relax just enough to chuckle too. “Hey, look on the bright side, now we got more in common.”

__

“Don’t push it." Boone stops chuckling. "That’s an order.”

__

Benny's hackles rise at the order, but he’s more concerned with diffusing the situation before he gets some appendage ripped off. He lets the power play go. “Right. Sorry. Not pushing it, uh...corporal.”

__

“No.”

__

“Ensign?”

__

“That’s navy.”

__

“Sir?”

__

“Good enough.”

__

“Kinky,” Benny breathes. He can’t help it. It’s right there. Maybe Boone ain’t the only one without a sense of self preservation.

__

“What did I just say.”

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's behind the scenes tidbit! Benny and Manny canonically shared a room in Novac. _And there was only one bed_.
> 
> (Jessup and McMurphy were there, too, but...maybe they gave them a quarter to go to the movies.)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Advisories** : Graphic violence (though brief, still rather rough), torture (again, brief but rough), but I promise everything will be okay and there are cuddles afterward.

Days pass. Caesar’s health takes a turn for the worse, so the captives are mostly ignored again. That’s fine with Benny.

They’re fed twice a day now. Nothing like full three course meals, but enough that constant hunger doesn’t gnaw his thoughts to shreds. Benny decides the first water boy must have been skimming off the top, selling boxes of InstaMash on the Legion black market. The new kid is the honest type. This is also fine.

After the first day, they don’t get to keep a water bucket on hand, but the kid comes by often enough that Benny never has to be afraid of dehydration. Not that a little thing like that gets in the way of being scared, but he doesn’t _have_ to be, even if his nightmares didn’t get the memo.

Benny and Boone spend their nights wrapped around each other, surviving. Tolerating. Commiserating. Downright getting along, sometimes.

Days they spend together too, of course. Benny tries to give Boone some breathing room by not talking his ear off every minute of every day. They spend a lot of time watching the guards. Or watching each other.

After awhile, Benny concludes he ain’t been fair about Boone’s looks. He may not be leading man handsome, but he has a character actor’s face, with a kind of rugged quality Benny appreciates. Occasionally, when he gets bored of strictly chaste thoughts, Benny’s mind strays down darker, seedier avenues. He imagines Boone in the throes of passion, if such a thing is even possible. Imagines what it would take to crack the facade and dig through what’s underneath. All Benny’s skill pitted against Boone’s uptight self-control. A battle of wills for the ages.

Other times, Benny imagines the afterglow. Sweaty and sated, burly arms wrapped around him, the smell of sex heavy in the air.

Then Boone pins him with a look like he can read his thoughts, and Benny drags his mind back out of the gutter.

When staring and daydreaming wear thin, they chat. Boone tries to meet him halfway. He answers questions if they ain’t too personal. He tells the occasional joke without a punchline or a story that goes nowhere.

They fall into a routine. Benny hates routine. He should be grateful for the boredom, but after a couple of days of it, he wants to crawl right out of his skin.

“You think your friend will be back from Utah any time soon?” Benny asks. Boone always says some variation of yes, which is comforting even though the broad still hasn’t materialized.

“I wish you’d stop asking me that,” says Boone.

“But I’m tired of waiting,” Benny whines, the way he used to whine at the tribal elders when they had a long walk ahead of them. “When’s she gonna get here?”

“I don’t know,” Boone snaps. “Maybe she isn’t coming at all.”

“W-What?” Benny stammers. He feels like he’s had a bucket of water dumped over his head. “Boone? Baby? Don’t do this to me.” She’s coming. She has to be coming. She won’t abandon her friend. She won’t leave them to die here. Well, she won’t leave _Boone_ to die here. Right?

“I didn’t mean that. Of course she’s coming,” says Boone. Benny senses a certain lack of conviction.

“What is it you’re not telling me?”

“Nothing. Don’t panic.”

“Who’s panicking?!” Benny panics. He flinches from the sudden scrutiny of the guards and lowers his voice. “You can’t hit me with that shit and not explain it. Why ain’t she coming?”

“She’s coming.”

“Baby, I know you think it’s a fate worse than death, but _talk_ to me.”

“Not good at that,” says Boone.

“Yeah, you ain’t kidding.”

“No, I mean...last time I talked to her. It didn’t go well. She hasn’t spoken to me since.”

“And you’re just mentioning this _now_?”

“It didn’t come up.”

“It should have,” Benny growls in frustration.

“You didn’t ask.”

“Pal, some things you gotta volunteer!”

“Sorry.”

“Sorry, he says. Our would-be savior is giving him the cold shoulder, he forgets to mention it, and _sorry_ , he says.” Benny’s heart sinks. “How long?”

“Hm?”

“How long was she ignoring you _out there_ before she started ignoring you _in here_?”

“Mm. Weeks.”

“Weeks?” It’s almost a wail. “As in two? Six? Twenty-fucking-three? How long are we talking, here?”

“If it was twenty-three, I would have said months,” says Boone. That doesn’t answer the goddamn question.

“Don’t tell me she went to Utah just to get away from you?” Benny demands.

“Um...maybe.”

“What did you _do_ to her?”

“Nothing.” He meets Benny’s eyes, and looks away, shamefaced. “Almost nothing. I told her...what happened to Carla.”

“Which is?”

“None of your business.”

“It is now!” Furious, Benny kicks Boone in the leg. If it’s the reason for him sitting in this tent and maybe fucking dying here, it damn well _is_ his business.

“Ow,” says Boone.

Benny kicks him again.

“Stop that.”

“You want me to aim for the face?” Benny asks, turning sideways so he could maybe get a leg up that high. He’ll fall over doing it, but he can get one good hit right to the nose.

“I shot her,” says Boone. “I shot her instead of rescuing her.”

“Oh.” Rescue. So she wasn’t with the Legion willingly. That puts a different light on the picture, and explains why Boone tried to cave Benny’s face in with his noggin, but Benny still doesn’t understand all the fuss.

“Six doesn’t appreciate people who shoot women in the head instead of looking for other solutions.” He cuts a glance Benny’s way. “For some reason.”

“Oh, so now this is _my_ fault?” It’s Benny’s fault. It’s at least seventy-five percent his fault. He already knew he brought this on himself, but the waiting, at least, he thought he could put on outside forces.

“Not blaming you,” says Boone. “This one’s on me.”

“Part of it is!” Benny agrees. He brings his knees up so he has a place to rest his head. Fuck, this is it. She’s not coming. He’s doomed.

“Look,” Boone says gruffly, “I still think she’ll be here. But if she doesn’t come, we’ll find our own way out.”

“You got an escape plan up your sleeve you ain’t told me about?” Benny asks without raising his face from his knees.

“I was kind of hoping you’d be the brains of the operation.”

“Oh, so _now_ I’m smart enough to think my way out of a wet paper bag?”

“Just don’t tell them that.” Boone nods at the guards.

“Beautiful,” Benny says. “Perfect. Swell.”

“Whatever happens, I won’t leave you alone here,” Boone says with an earnestness that makes Benny look at him head-on.

Boone watches with a kind of intensity Benny doesn’t want to deal with, so he looks around the tent instead.

There’s new activity around Caesar’s throne, messengers running back and forth, high-ranking officers receiving their orders, but Caesar is looking right at Benny.

Benny stiffens and tries to find an interesting pattern in the rug.

“Don’t look now,” he mutters, “but I think the big boss—I said _don’t look_!”

Boone stares at the old man. Benny can only imagine Caesar is staring back.

“Don’t make eye contact,” Benny says through clenched teeth.

Boone growls.

“I say don’t make eye contact and you think that means pick a fight?” Benny grits through clenched teeth.

“He started it.”

Great. Next they’ll be lifting legs and marking territory. Bad enough that Boone is like an attack dog trained to tear Legion apart, practically vibrating with aggression whenever one looks his way. Now he’s trying to get something started with the Big Cheese himself.

“Down, boy,” Benny murmurs, without much hope of success.

“Mm.”

Benny risks glancing up, and finds Boone looking at him again. Still bristling like a wild animal, eyes narrowed, but no longer focused on staring holes in Caesar’s head. Boone might shake hands and roll over for Benny when he asks, but he’s got no illusions about his ability to control the guy. God help the Legion once he’s off the chain.

At least Caesar’s occupied with his generals now, or whatever they’re called, so Benny can breathe a sigh of relief. That’s one potential crisis averted.

They need to get out of here. The sooner the better. And if the courier really ain’t coming, Benny needs to be the one to figure out how.

* * *

They bounce a few ideas off each other over the next hour. None of them are any good.

Seduce a guard?

Seduce _all_ the guards?

Make a suicide run at Caesar and hope it works out?

Get themselves crucified, flex hard enough to snap the crosses in half, and make a run for it?

That one makes Boone chuckle, once, the kind of sound that could be mistaken for a cough. Benny counts it as a win.

He can’t help noticing that conversation unfolds between them easier now. Boone is still more likely to react than to contribute anything meaningful, and his reactions are minor at best. But as Benny’s straight-man, he’s finally getting into the act.

They don’t come up with anything useful, but throwing around stupid ideas is a good way to spend the time until mid-morning, when all the activity finally dies down. In the sudden quiet, it’s harder to have a private conversation. Boone gets self-conscious and clams up. Benny gives up on making plans doomed to failure, and resigns himself to another day of staring at canvas walls.

A bit before noon, the tent flap opens. ( _Her? Not her._ ) The water boy comes in with dinner and cocktails. Nah, it’s still morning. Eggs and coffee? Benny can dream.

That healer slips in right behind the kid. Benny eyes her with polite detachment. It ain’t that he holds a grudge about the healing powder or anything like that, but she’s too busy with her own problems to be sympathetic to his, and Benny’s looking for sympathy right about now. If she felt any for him, she couldn’t afford to show it anyway.

The brat kneels down to give Boone a drink. The broad kneels in front of Benny, pulling a single-dose bag of healing powder out of her basket.

“What’s that’s for?” Benny asks, and then wishes he hadn’t. He has enough bruises, scrapes, and strains that he can use healing, even if the Legion wouldn’t agree he needs it. If somebody’s got their signals crossed and sent her to take care of Benny instead of whatever poor sap really needs it, he shouldn’t let on that she’s making a mistake.

The healer tips the powder into his mouth before she tells him, “Caesar wants you healthy enough to stand up to questioning.”

Immediately, Benny spits out everything he hasn’t already swallowed. He can already feel bruises disappearing and swelling going down. He tries not to look like the picture of good health.

“It’s happening either way,” she says.

Right, of course. His health ain’t what they’re interested in, just their ability to hurt him. If Benny starts off from a weaker position, that’s no skin off their noses.

“My mistake, doll,” He gives her a winning grin, but she’s not playing.

“I only had one dose to spare for you.” She really does sound sorry, though it could cost her. It can’t be easy, being a healer who fixes people up just for the Legion to break them down again. Benny smiles sadly at her, and hopes it conveys that he understands.

The kid offers Benny water. No food. Finally, Benny and Boone’s visitors both slip out.

Benny sets his shoulders, pretending he hasn’t broken into a sweat that has nothing to do with the heat. What questions can the Legion still have? He’s told them everything. He’s told them things they didn’t even want to know. They didn’t just torture the truth out of him, they hit bottom on the truth and drilled down until he was making up new lies just to get them to stop digging.

“You...you’ll get through this,” Boone tells him.

“Sure I will, baby. It’s just torture! Don’t you go anywhere. I’ll be back in a flash.” His grin has nothing to do with pleasure.

“I mean it. You’re tougher than you look.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” Benny asks, on the verge of a hysterical laugh.

“Yeah. Did it work?”

The tent flap opens. ( _Her, please, her? Still not her._ ) Enter Caesar’s chief torturer. The name’s Lucius. Benny doesn’t know what his job title is, officially, in their cheesy dead language. But he’s familiar with his work.

Lucius. Benny’s in no state to come up with a snide nickname for this one.

The two guards at the entrance follow Lucius over to the prisoners. Benny expects to be dragged outside, but instead, one of them gets behind him, hooks his arms and pins him in place. The other traps Boone in a position where he has no choice but to watch.

“Hello, Benny,” Lucius says, smooth as silk. “It’s time for you to tell me what you know about this courier.”

Oh, so that’s the game. They’ve noticed Boone and Benny getting friendly, and they assume that means Boone’s shared something useful about his pal. They could just ask Boone about her, but they know he won’t give it up without a fight. And they need Boone in one piece. With Benny, it doesn’t matter if they get carried away.

“He doesn’t know anything,” says Boone.

“I’ll be the judge of that.” Lucius grabs a handful of Benny’s hair and yanks his head back.

A knife pinpricks Benny’s throat. He shoots a panicked glance Boone’s way. He wants to play it cool and tell Boone not to talk, because it’s painfully clear they’re trying to goad Boone into protecting Benny. He also wants to beg Boone to tell them everything he’s ever known, because it’s equally clear this ain’t a bluff.

“You don’t have to get handsy, baby, I’ll talk,” Benny offers, but his composure cracks and he lets out a squeak when the knife bites deeper. Lucius doesn’t like to be called baby. “What do you want to know about her?” Benny babbles. “Her real name is Margarine. She’s from Badwater Basin. She’s President Kimball’s secret mistress.” He’s going to spill his guts either way. Might as well give them a load of horseshit to sift through.

“I’m the courier,” says Boone.

Oh, Christ, that ain’t the way to play this. But now that card’s on the table. There’s no putting it back in the deck.

Lucius pulls the knife away from Benny’s throat, but doesn’t let go of his hair. Still, Benny will take any reprieve he can get.

“What?” Lucius says, in a tone that says he might, if nothing else, be impressed with the audacity of the lie.

“Didn’t you know?” asks Boone.

The guard behind Benny yanks his arms, bending him almost in half. Lucius settles his weight onto Benny’s midsection, forcing him backwards until his head hits the guard’s shoulder and his throat is exposed. It ain’t comfortable, but if Benny is mostly forgotten for the moment, he’ll take it.

“I should cut out your lying tongue,” Lucius says conversationally, brandishing the knife at Boone. He turns back to Benny. “I suppose yours will have to do.”

“What, _no_ —”

The blade slides between his teeth and pries them apart. This ain’t how you cut out a tongue, Benny realizes that distantly. To properly rip one out by the root is a whole production with a set of tongs and shit like that. This is strictly a tactic designed to intimidate, but it’s working. Benny’s plenty intimidated.

Benny thrashes against their grip, but the guard has his arms and Lucius has his hair. He ain’t getting out. His feet flail for something vulnerable to kick, but the best they can do is scrabble uselessly in the sand.

“Don’t,” Benny begs, garbled around the knife blade. This is just an intimidation tactic, this is not a clean, intentional cut, but even if he don’t lose the whole tongue neatly, a blade sawing against meat will still leave a ragged mess. Keep at it long enough and his silver tongue becomes a jagged stump.

“He doesn’t know anything,” Boone says again, almost shouting this time. “Fucking cowards!”

It lacks the finesse of ‘couldn’t blow your skirts up,’ and Lucius doesn’t care.

The tip of the knife slices into Benny’s tongue. Pain sparks in his mouth. Blood wells up and runs down his throat, hot and metallic. He gurgles out something like a scream.

From the corner of his eye, Benny catches sudden movement. Boone is fighting against the one man holding him down, throwing his head back into the guard’s nose. There’s a crunch of bone, a rush of blood to rival what’s in Benny’s mouth. They should have brought backup, but it won’t make that much difference.

Benny’s making plenty of racket now, choking, gurgling, not quite shrieking, more from panic than from pain, but he knows worse is still to come. This is no time to be brave. This is the time for helpless, incomprehensible non-words while he still has a tongue to talk with, because if he gives them enough of a show of submission, maybe they’ll _stop_.

The tent flap opens. ( _Is it her? Is it fucking_ _ **her**_ _?!_ ) The water boy runs in, breathless, to report something to Caesar, but Benny loses interest ( _it ain’t her_ ) because the knife is sawing through his tongue, severing muscle, he’s gagging on his own blood, he can’t even scream—

“That’s enough,” says Caesar.

“Sir?” Lucius is respectful, but unsure.

“Let him go.”

Just like that, the knife pulls out of Benny’s mouth. Lucius climbs off him. The guard lets him fall to the ground.

Benny curls on his side, coughing and shuddering, spitting blood on the ground. His tongue is still attached, but it hurts, god _damn_ it hurts, and it ain’t responding the way it should. He puts his hands to his mouth, but he doesn’t dare feel around and see what the damage is.

“We’ll need him talking in an hour,” Caesar orders.

Someone jerks Benny’s head up by the hair. Again. At this rate, they’re going to yank it all out and he’ll be as bald as Caesar. Or Boone.

“Baby,” Benny tries to say. Blood dribbles down his chin.

Someone else pries his jaws apart. Benny whimpers, but can’t fight the hand that forces its way into his mouth. Meaty fingers press a wad of healing powder to his tongue and hold it there, to be absorbed by his saliva and the open wound.

Benny could really learn to hate healing. It ain’t fair for them to do their worst and then fix the damage, just so they can do it all over again.

The fingers withdraw from his mouth, and Benny reflexively swallows what’s left of the healing powder, turned to a sticky paste by his own blood. No more defiance. Not now.

“I’ll see you again soon,” Lucius promises, almost purring in Benny’s ear.

They let him go.

They drag Boone before Caesar and make him kneel. Caesar benevolently offers him a chance to unburden himself of any information he might have. Boone makes the standard implications about Caesar’s mother.

Benny watches, waiting for his tongue to grow back together. Flesh and sinew braids and knits, drawing closed as though pulled together by joining threads.

After a barehanded punch in the gut that barely even looks like it hurts, they put Boone back in his spot next to Benny. The guards take up their posts. Lucius toddles off to do whatever it is he does. The morning’s diversion is over.

Boone sits in silence. Benny stays curled up on the ground.

“Sorry,” Boone says after a while.

“Not...” His tongue flaps the way it’s supposed to. “Not your fault.”

“I’ve got bad things coming to me,” says Boone. “Didn’t mean for it to spill over on you.”

“Chuckles, I got myself into this mess. Didn’t need any help from a California—” Ow. “—farm boy.”

“Not a farmer.”

“And what bad could you have coming? You’re so clean you squeak.” Could, coming, clean, and squeak all hurt. That last K turns into something more like a harsh sigh, but Benny figures he’s got his point across.

“Hm. Agree to disagree.” Boone’s knee bumps Benny’s shoulder in a friendly sort of way. “I told you you’re tougher than you look.”

Yeah, sure. Benny’s nose burns. His eyes well. He’s curled up in the god damn fetal position. Boone is just too polite to notice.

“You’re full of it,” says Benny.

“Not as much as you,” Boone argues. “Margarine?”

“At least I didn’t say I was her!”

“I panicked.”

Benny sits up, even though he’d rather keep wallowing on the floor. He finger-combs his hair and straightens his clothes, and tries to wipe the blood away from his mouth. There’s still a sharp pain when he moves his tongue, but it ain’t enough to stop him talking, even if it comes out slurred for a while.

“They know you don’t know anything,” Boone says grimly.

“‘Course not,” Benny agrees. This hard C sounds better. “They’re just trying to get to you.”

“It’s not right.”

“You’ll get no argument from me, pally.”

“I won’t give them anything that will hurt Six,” Boone says, like that was ever on the table. “But...I’ll do what I can.”

“You’d do that for me?” Benny’s so taken aback, he can’t think of anything flippant to say. Sure, they’ve been looking out for each other. Helping each other. Keeping each other sane. Boone has shown himself willing to take physical punishment meant for Benny. But turning on the courier and cooperating with the Legion, even in the most minor of ways? That’s against his whatchamacallit, his code of ethics. It puts a stain on his honor.

“If they cut out your tongue, I’ll have no one to talk to,” says Boone.

“Horses shit,” Benny says. Arguably, not having a tongue would make him a _much_ better listener. “ _You’d_ still be able to talk.”

Boone looks away; the tips of his ears turn pink. “You couldn’t talk back.”

“Ain’t that what you’ve been angling for this whole time?”

Boone says nothing to that.

“Ohhh. You’d have to carry the conversation.”

“No.” A beat. Boone clears his throat. “I’d be...bored.”

And it would be a crime to try to put this man through another game of charades.

“Don’t tell me I’m growing on you, Chuckles.”

“Like a fungus,” Boone admits.

“You calling me a _fungi_?” Benny elbows him in the rib.

“Yes.” Boone’s brow crumples. “I just said. Fungus.”

“Never mind.” Maybe Benny can teach him about vegetation puns later.

Still more fragile than he wants to let on, Benny slumps sideways until his head comes to rest on Boone’s shoulder. It’s too hot to sit so close, and the guards are watching. Still, Boone doesn’t shrug him off, so Benny stays.

For the next little while, Boone fills Benny in on useless details about the courier that he can scream out under torture. She’s a hell of a brawler, strong as an ox. Subpar with a rifle but decent with handguns. Bad with technology. Lucky at cards. Not nice, but good, and too likely to get caught up in other people’s problems. She doesn’t remember her real name.

Boone ain’t kidding when he says his details are useless. He really doesn’t know a goddamn thing about this broad beyond how she handles herself in a fight. And yet, Benny believes him when he says he trusts her with his life.

He’s still rambling when the courier walks in.

Goddamn. The courier walks in. The tent flap opens, and it’s her. Benny’s been waiting so long, he almost can’t comprehend it’s really happening. She’s here, that hard-edged wasteland broad the whole goddamn world is so interested in, in leather armor, with a heavy case slung over one shoulder.

She’s finally here.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Advisories** : Nothing too bad this chapter, just some canon-typical violence (if a bit bloody, but hey, it's Fallout!) and a little nod to video game logic. There's also a slight canon divergence: Unlike in-game, Benny does not have Maria in his pocket.

Boone sits bolt upright. Benny does, too. The guards snap to attention. Caesar looks unsurprised.

Caesar knew, Benny thinks, anger simmering. The bastard knew she was coming, and he still let Lucius try to carve out Benny’s tongue.

Or maybe he only found out when the kid ran in to report it. Maybe her arrival, and the fact she’ll want to question Benny, is the only reason he gets to hang on to his favorite body part. (Second favorite? Favorite? He can’t decide. What does he value more? Bumping gums or pitching woo? Eh. Call it a tie.)

Either way, Benny’s never been so happy to see anyone in his life, even if she doesn’t seem to notice he’s there at all.

“You’re the courier who’s caused so much trouble for my Legion, and yet you dare come before me,” Caesar says, in damn good form today. Usually he’s all show and no go, but he’s gotta be in decent shape to order a torture session and not mind the noise.

Six ignores him. She drops her case, falls to her knees in front of Boone, and plants a passionate, lingering kiss on his lips.

The goon squad shifts position, ready to kill her for the insult to their chief, but with a gesture, Caesar instructs them to let it pass.

Boone blinks a few times while it’s happening, neither reciprocating nor trying to escape. At one point, he glances at Benny in confusion, brow wrinkled almost like he’s in pain, but there’s nothing Benny can do to help. Besides, this is the best entertainment he’s had in weeks.

Finally, she ends it, but keeps a grip on Boone’s shoulder, gaze tangling with his.

“Are you all right?” she asks.

Stunned, Boone nods. If she sighed his direction, he’d fall over.

“Good.” She gives his shoulder a reassuring squeeze and stands, without bothering to retrieve her conspicuously nearby goodies.

Benny’s eyes curiously dip to the case on the ground—Briefcase? Train case?—but he remembers himself before anyone notices. His attention casually slides away. It’s better not to stare, on the off chance the courier’s ‘forgetfulness’ is intentional.

“Are you ready now?” Caesar asks, fortunately amused.

“One second.” She moves on to Benny and grabs him by the lapel, dragging his face into the light so she can examine his bruises and bloody mouth. She ain’t gentle enough about it to fool him into believing she cares.

“Is that how you greet all your old friends?” he asks, straddling the line between sleazy and polite. He glances at Boone, still reeling from the kiss, and back at the courier. “I’m ready and willing, baby. You want to play post office?”

“We’re closed.” Disgusted, she shoves him back, flat on his ass. Disappointing, but not surprising. He knows he ain’t a friend. He’s merchandise more than a person to her, but he’s fine with being yanked around like damaged goods so long as she’s upset about his nicks and dents.

“Okay,” she says, strolling over to the old man. “You want to take it from ‘yet you dare’ something something?”

Jesus, Benny shouldn’t have been thinking of her as a rescue party all this time. The broad’s wits must be solid gone to talk to a warlord that way.

“Don’t tell me she’s the wife you shot,” he mutters to Boone while the courier and Caesar get down to negotiations.

Boone lifts one shoulder in a reluctant shrug, which raises more questions than it answers, but Benny’s sort of getting used to that where Boone is concerned.

“Rebound girl?” Benny guesses.

He shakes his head no.

“Then how’d you get all the luck?”

Boone flashes a grin at Benny. It’s so shocking, so completely fucking unexpected, Benny almost misses the shine of metal between his teeth. 

Goddamn. God-fucking-damn. What did she slip him?

Benny sits up, and there’s a weight in his jacket where nothing sat before.

The dame’s got quick hands, he’ll give her that. And a quick tongue, maybe, although the amount of time it took her to pass the whatsit to Boone, maybe quick ain’t the word.

What is it? He’s itching to reach into his jacket and see what he has, but he’s got to keep things smooth. He can’t go tearing his clothes off with Caesar and the mooks there to see. The last thing Benny wants to do is blow the courier’s big scheme.

Because against all odds, Benny’s part of it. She’s there to save Boone, but she’s cutting Benny in on the action. For the first time, he might have a real live honest-to-god way _out_.

His stomach rolls, a queasy, suddenly unsettled thing. He wants to laugh. He wants to cry. He wants to kiss her, out of sheer gratitude and _not_ out of animal lust. 

Is this what hope feels like? It’s been so long he hardly recognizes the stuff, but it swells big and bright inside his rib cage like a balloon. It takes some effort not to get lightheaded from it.

From beneath his lashes, Benny studies the courier. She and Caesar have dropped their voices where he can only eavesdrop every fifth word, but he’s confident in his own cleverness. He can figure out whatever it is she’s got planned if he gets enough time to think about it.

The courier doesn’t look armed, but no way would she slink into a Legion stronghold without a holdout weapon. Besides, if she’s talented enough to sneak contraband to both captives, she’s got to be packing heat under her armor somewhere. That’s just logic.

She’s close enough to Caesar to take him out with whatever she’s carrying, if she’s quick. The big guy ain’t in any shape to fight her off, either, not if she’s as good as she must be to have gotten this far in the world. But she also hasn’t made a move yet, and her stance is all wrong if she’s planning one, so a frontal assault is right out. 

Maybe she’ll take out the guards first. Or maybe she’s counting on Benny and Boone to do that for her, once she gives a signal? Except—no, that can’t be it, because Boone’s hands are tied behind his back, and even if she slipped him a razor blade along with some of that tongue, no way he can undo his bindings himself...and Benny can’t do it for him with everyone on high alert. 

Benny frowns, glaring at the sand. What the hell _is_ she planning? And why ain’t he bright enough to figure it out? If she’s going to rescue them, she’s got to— 

Unless—the balloon of hope inside him deflates—unless she _ain’t_ planning to rescue them. Unless she expects them to rescue themselves, with the little token she slipped Boone while inspecting his tonsils, and whatever weighs heavy in Benny’s jacket pocket. 

Benny risks a glance at Boone, wondering what he makes of the situation, but Boone only has eyes for the courier and the old man. If Boone is hopeful, or anxious, or disappointed, or determined, or horny, or _anything_ , Benny can’t see any sign of it.

All right. All right. They each have what she’s slipped them, and that’s more than what they had before. It’s a chance. Even if they have to make their own way out, they’ll have a _chance_. 

Caesar hands over the platinum chip. The courier turns it over so it catches the light. Benny’s jaw clenches. That’s _his_. His scheme, his months of hard work, his widget that he stole fair and square. She takes it back like it’s nothing. Tucks it in a pocket with a shrug and a nod. 

Maybe she’ll finish what Benny started. That’s better than leaving it in Caesar’s hands, but still. It ain’t fair. 

Caesar says something else, and they both turn to stare at Benny. He tries not to look like he’s contemplating hitting her over the head and rifling through her pockets. 

“There are rewards for doing as I command,” the old man says, more than loud enough for Benny to hear now. “Today, your reward is vengeance.” Uh-oh. “You get to decide how Benny dies.”

“Oh, neat!” says the courier. “But what about Boone?”

“You can feel free to take him away with you. _After_ you’ve dealt with the bunker.”

“I could use his help down there, actually,” the courier suggests. She’s gutsy, but smooth-talking ain’t part of her skill set. Caesar doesn’t buy it.

“After,” he repeats.

“What, are you worried I’ll take him and skip town? You can keep Benny as collateral.”

“I don’t want Benny,” Caesar scoffs. “Nobody wants Benny.”

Well, that’s just plain hurtful. Benny pokes out his bottom lip in a dramatic pout. The courier rolls her eyes at him.

“What if I sweeten the deal?” She points at the case she left by Boone. “I brought a gift for Mighty Caesar.” She pronounces it _see-zer_ , which Benny bets is a calculated insult hiding under a mask of ignorance.

Caesar gestures to a guard, who tries to pick up the case and bring it to the chief. He’s surprised by the weight of it, after seeing the courier carry it in so easily. Instead of struggling with it and inviting unfavorable comparisons to the profligate woman’s strength, the man opens up the case and takes out a single block of metal which he presents to Caesar like that was his plan all along.

Benny’s eyes creep over to the case for a peek; the block is one of at least a dozen. Maybe more. How the heck did she carry all that? How did the case _hold_ that much?

“Hm,” says Caesar, accepting the block. His wrist bends alarmingly under the weight but he pretends nothing is amiss. “Pretty, but ultimately useless.”

“Seriously? I pulled off a casino heist for those gold bars!”

“Which were quite valuable two hundred years ago, I know. Now they’re basically shiny rocks. Still, I accept the gift in the spirit in which it was intended. And you have my word that your friend will remain unharmed until you return for him. Now, go to Benny. Let him know what you’ve decided. My Praetorians will perform the execution—unless you want to perform it yourself.”

“Oh, I _do_.” She flashes her teeth at Benny, who gulps and tries not to shrink away. “Can it wait until after the bunker thing, though? I’d like to have time to savor it.”

“Acceptable,” Caesar grants.

“Good. Then I’ll need to get across the river. If you won’t let me take Boone, I’m going to need other backup. Shouldn’t take more than a day or two to get back here and deal with your problem.”

“Also acceptable.”

“A pleasure working with you.” She strolls back to the prisoners, and stops to trail her fingers through Benny’s hair. “Be seeing you.” It’s a promise. And a threat. 

He’s got no snappy retort. 

“Across the river,” she says to Boone, giving his shoulder another squeeze. Boone nods, stone-faced. Those two share a look that nobody else can read.

And then she’s gone. 

* * *

Caesar makes tracks for his private tent about half an hour after the courier leaves. Benny can’t help but notice he’s rubbing his temple when he goes, ordering the guards to keep the peace, and not bothering to do anything about the briefcase full of gold bricks. Maybe he ain’t as bright-eyed and bushy tailed as Benny initially thought, if he’s off to bed with a headache this early in the day. Could be he was putting on a show for Benny and Boone’s benefit, torture session and all, just in case they’d let his weakness slip to the courier. Or maybe it’s just that holding a full conversation with a stranger took more out of the old man than he has to give.

Either way, Benny can hope that Caesar’s headache will keep him bedridden for...oh, let’s say a week? Or better yet, forever?

Anyway, that leaves the captives to their own devices. When he’s sure no one’s paying him any mind, Benny shifts around like he’s trying to get comfortable. He uses his knees and Boone’s shoulder to block the remaining guards’ view of his hands as he finally reaches into his jacket to find...a knife?

Hot damn, it’s a knife. It ain’t everything he needs to make an escape, but it’s a start.

“You got any idea what that kooky broad’s thinking?” he asks Boone.

Boone shrugs.

Benny checks to make sure the guards still think he’s beneath their notice. They’re murmuring to each other, probably concerned about the boss. Benny lowers his voice to a whisper, just in case.

“So what’s your piece of the puzzle?”

Boone grunts.

“What?” Benny asks.

Boone looks exasperated.

“ _What_?” Benny repeats.

“Take it,” Boone says through clenched teeth.

“Say again?”

“Take. It.”

Oh. He can’t talk with that thing in his mouth, and he can’t spit it out without being real conspicuous about it. Benny, with at least some use of his hands, stands a better chance of not being noticed.

There’s only one way he can think of to make the transfer. He sure hopes Boone’s asking for what Benny thinks he is, because if not, things are about to get real awkward.

“Oh, fine,” Benny complains, his voice rising from a whisper to a whine. “So what am I supposed to think, you kissing her like that?” He moves in closer, confrontational, keeping his voice just loud enough for the guards to hear without irritating them enough to come over and break up the lovers’ spat.

Boone gives him a look that Benny thinks is supposed to be passionate. It looks like he has a cramp.

All right, so Benny has to carry this scene on his own. He decides to skip the dialogue and go straight to the grand finale.

Boone has the same idea. They smack their mouths together way too hard. Benny thinks he might have split his lower lip against Boone’s teeth, but he manages to keep his head in place.

Boone tries to push the metal thing into Benny’s mouth, but he overestimates the dexterity of his own tongue, because it slips off sideways and gets lost somewhere in his cheek. He won’t be tying knots in any cherry stems anytime soon.

Benny tries to go in after the lost gizmo, and finds nothing but teeth. So many goddamn teeth. Soon, both their tongues are mashing together in the same space, and Benny realizes his mistake, overtaxing a muscle that’s barely healed from the morning’s abuse. Healing powder ain’t stimpaks. It leaves scars behind, and his tongue might split open along the fault lines. Shit, this ain’t working. It’s taking too long. The guards will be over any second to—he don’t even want to know what.

Benny tips himself backwards to let gravity do the work, forgetting that Boone’s arms ain’t free to support him. He goes ass over elbow. Boone crashes down beside him.

They stare at each other. Boone’s eyes are wide. Benny don’t like seeing this much emotion on that face.

“I swallowed it,” says Boone.

Benny would bury his face in his hands if he could. “Since you ain’t spitting blood, am I to assume it wasn’t a razor blade?”

“Key.”

“A _key_? For what lock?”

Boone jerks his head, and Benny follows the motion straight to the case of gold bars. “Secret compartment.”

“Let me guess: full of weapons.”

“Probably.”

Benny slams his eyes shut and groans. Even if they induce vomiting, or wait for the key to make a round trip through Boone’s guts, there’s no way to retrieve it without being noticed. “Terrific. Today gets better and better.”

“What have you got?” Boone asks.

“A knife,” Benny says.

“Cut me loose.”

“And then what, wise guy? I said _knife_ , singular, not _knives_ , plural. Maybe you can’t do math so good without fingers to count on, but that means we’re a weapon short.” Well, three weapons short. Benny would prefer if they had one for each hand.

“Kill a guard, take his weapons.”

“Oh? Which of the _six_ guards you think I should jab before I get a spear to the face?”

Boone thinks on that, like it hadn’t occurred to him that rushing half a dozen guys ain’t smart. “Wait for night?” 

“Yeah, that’d work. In theory.” There’s only two guards after dark, and they tend to get sloppy as night wears on. By two in the morning, they’re dead on their feet. So are Benny and Boone, when they’re unlucky enough to be awake that late, but if they got something to look forward to, maybe they can store up some strength. Shit, maybe they can turn in early, nap at dusk and wake up in the middle of the night with some energy. “Take out the guards—take their armor...slip out of the camp. That still puts us in enemy territory.”

“She’ll be waiting,” Boone murmurs. “Across the river. With backup.”

“Hot damn, that’s what that meant?” Shit, they might actually have a chance. Benny considers, orders all the information in his head into neat little columns to organize it. “Okay. Okay, Chuckles, here’s what’s gonna happen...”

In whispers, they plan what they need to do. The suitcase the courier left lying next to them is no use, but Boone fills him in anyway just in case it comes up. She uses the secret compartment to hide her Nuka Colas from her companions in the Lucky 38. Boone’s the only one she trusts with that knowledge, because he’s the only one who won’t swipe them when her back is turned. Now it’s probably stuffed full of weapons, chems, all kinds of goodies to help with their escape. But they ain’t got the key—Benny tries not to be too sharp about that, but Boone still mutters a “sorry”—so they’ll have to make their own way out.

They have a knife. That’s a start. They have the courier, and as many friends as she may have brought with her, to give them cover if they blow the stealth option and have to make a run for it.

Boone says there might be as many as five guns backing her up, but only two really count.

“If we pull this off, it won’t matter how many cats she brought with her,” Benny reminds him. “Just remember the plan and don’t go picking any fights.”

“I won’t endanger the mission,” says Boone. “Not even to rid the world of more Legion scum.”

“We gotta find you another hobby.”

Night falls. Boone and Benny curl up together, sheltering against the cold, and nap as long as they dare. The guards pay no attention after all this time, even when they start shifting awake around midnight. They ain’t suspicious that Boone’s blocking their view of Benny’s hands, because after all, what can he do?

Benny saws through the ropes around his wrists and tucks the knife back inside his jacket. He could do the same for Boone, but it would be a lot harder to pull off without attracting attention. So it’ll be up to Benny to take out these two guards when the time comes.

“Are you sure you can do it?” Boone whispers.

It’s a fair question, but Benny bristles anyway. He may be out of shape and out of practice, running on his last dregs of energy and fighting through injuries that are nowhere near healed, but Benny ain’t forgotten his roots. He can take out these two losers.

He ain’t confident he can do it quick enough to stop them sounding the alarm, but he keeps that to himself. This is the best option they’ve got. Either Benny does his part, or they’re cooked; no sense worrying Boone with more doubts.

Benny presses close, keeping his arms hidden between their two bodies, and grabs an extra forty winks until Boone nudges him to signal that the guards are getting tired.

They’re disciplined. Caesar wouldn’t put them on guard if they weren’t. But it’s a long shift, and there’s nothing to do. After a few hours they get lax. They slouch. They fidget. They get glassy-eyed. They probably question what they did to get assigned the graveyard shift.

The sleeping prisoners are the furthest things from their minds.

Then Boone starts moaning in his “sleep.” Benny makes a show of waking up.

“You okay, pal?” he asks.

Boone moans again, the way Benny’s coached him. Not like it’s an emergency. Something is wrong with him, but it ain’t even bad enough to wake him up yet. They need the guards to feel confident in handling the situation without backup, but it’s also got to escalate fast enough that the guards don’t have time to think too much.

Boone may be doing the best acting of his life, which ain’t saying a lot. He’s underplaying it, so Benny steps in.

“I think this guy is sick or something,” he says, giving Boone a poke to tell him to move it along.

Boone makes a very convincing retching noise. That gets the guards moving over to investigate. One kneels over them, trying to turn Boone over.

Benny strikes.

The knife is a good one. Sharp, well-balanced. It’s familiar in his hand.

It slices the guard’s throat like butter.

Benny ain’t got time to examine the results. He’s up on one knee before the second guard knows what’s happened. A slash to that artery that runs down the thigh, then Benny’s on his feet. As the guard starts to cry out, Benny gets him in a chokehold, smothering the sound. An elbow jabs him in the ribs. A hand yanks at his wrist. Then flutters. Then falls, and Benny’s holding dead weight.

He lets the body drop. The first guard’s throat wound still spurts blood, but it won’t be much longer. His gurgles ain’t loud enough for anybody to hear.

It’s done. Nobody comes running.

“I didn’t know you could move that fast,” says Boone.

“Me neither,” Benny admits.

His knees go to jelly, and he collapses in an undignified heap on top of the corpses. He manages not to land on the knife, at least.

“You okay?” Boone asks. “Shock?”

“Shock,” Benny scoffs. “I ain’t moved in a month and I got no food in me. Just gimme a minute.” He draws himself up, trying to control the trembling in every muscle that’s purely a result of his body eating itself to survive. He’s got no reserves left.

 _Shock_. What does Boone think he is?

Once he gets his hands steady, Benny cuts Boone free. Now they just have to take the dead guards’ armor, and see how far that gets them.

Boone takes the knife instead.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Benny asks, watching his buddy head for Caesar’s private room.

“Making sure the noise didn’t wake him up.”

“What happened to not endangering the mission?”

“Just let me have this,” says Boone.

Benny shrugs his shoulders and starts stripping the bodies. He can’t say he wouldn’t consider doing the same if he was in good enough condition to be sure of his odds.

So Boone disappears. Benny gets himself into a set of Legion armor, helmet included. He’s learned his lesson there. And his hair looks like shit, anyway.

Benny’s lacing up his new pair of boots when Boone returns, absolutely covered in blood and wearing Caesar’s sonic gauntlet.

“He didn’t wake up,” he reports.

Benny has never been more attracted to anyone in his life. Is it the way the blood glistens on every available patch of Boone’s skin? The way he dispatched the biggest threat in the Mojave with a nonchalant flick of the wrist? Or is it everything between them in the last—what, week? Week and a half?

“You want to get together after this?” Benny asks, and even he ain’t sure if he means for a drink, a fuck, or something more.

“Okay,” says Boone.

“What, okay? Just like that?”

“Why not?” Boone shrugs.

“Oh, you flatterer.”

“I was trying to be funny,” says Boone. “I know that’s not my strong suit.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, baby, you’re a laugh riot,” Benny lies.

“Yeah,” Boone says flatly. “Anyway, lets get out of here first. Take off that uniform and then we’ll talk.”

“Can’t wait to get me out of my skirt, hey?” Benny flirts, hiking up the leather strips to show some leg. Boone gives him a look of utter revulsion. His hatred of the Legion overrides any attraction he might otherwise entertain.

Well, he’s going to have to learn to live with it, because the second uniform is for him.

Boone eyes the praetorian armor with distaste, but he knows the plan. If anyone sees them, in the dark and from a distance, the armor will give them a hell of a lot better chance to pass by than their own clothes would.

Reluctantly, Boone peels off his bloody t-shirt, and—

Hello. Is that what Benny’s been using for a pillow?

“Hubba, hubba,” Benny allows himself to say.

Boone grunts and turns his back to gain the illusion of privacy.

“Too far?” Benny asks. “Sorry. Sex fiend, remember?”

“How could I forget?” Boone’s real careful about getting the skirt in place before he takes off his pants. “How much of that is an act?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Benny says innocently.

He quits kidding when the other man turns to face him. Boone has a hint of color in his cheeks that’s got nothing to do with sunburn.

“You serious about getting together?” Boone asks. “I am if you are.”

“In that case, I’m serious,” Benny answers. “If we live that long.” Benny raises a brow, which he ain’t sure Boone can see. “What happened to hating my guts?”

“Never hated your guts.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“Guess I should say it,” Boone mutters. “You’re...not torture.”

“Thanks?” What the fuck?

“First night. Said being with you was torture. Didn’t mean it.”

“That’s real nice, baby, but maybe we should get out while the gettin’s good?” Benny suggests.

“Yeah.” Boone shrugs into the last bits of his Legion disguise, looking like he’d rather chew Abraxo. He keeps his beret on under the helmet.

Well, if Boone gets to be sentimental, so does Benny. He rolls his jacket into the tightest bundle he can manage and ties it to his belt. If this goes wrong, he wants to be buried in it.

As they move toward the tent flap, Benny whispers, “There’ll be two more guards outside.” He’s been dragged in and out of this tent more times than Boone has, and he ain’t sure how much Boone’s has a chance to pick up on as far as the inner workings of the camp go.

“Snipers on the walls have good line of sight,” Boone whispers back. “Have to keep quiet. Don’t give them a reason to look in.”

Okay, so he doesn’t need any help.

“Caesar’s fister ain’t quiet,” Benny points out.

“Fister?”

“That thing you’re wearing.” He points at the sonic gauntlet.

“I’m keeping it,” says Boone. But he goes and retrieves a knife from one of the corpses.

They creep up to the tent flap and, moving as one, fling it aside. They strike before the guards know anything is happening.

Benny’s target turns out to be Moose. Benny has his throat open in a second, slicing so deep the knife catches on bone. Silencing him ain’t strictly necessary, as quick as he goes, but Benny takes a particular pleasure in clamping his hand over the guard’s mouth to stifle the few gurgles that do escape.

“That’ll teach you to gag me, you son of a bitch,” Benny says as he lets the body fall backwards into the tent.

Boone ain’t knife-trained like Benny is. He’s good for NCR, maybe. He gets in three good cuts, all of them more than enough to kill, not one of them enough to kill fast or quiet. He has the guard in a stranglehold, fighting down his howls off rage through brute force, but the victim’s still thrashing. He’ll get free in a second and alert the whole camp.

Benny uses his knife’s hilt to strike the guard’s nose, pulverizing it beyond recognition and driving shards of bone into the brain. The struggle becomes a convulsion. The convulsion becomes a twitch. The twitch becomes dead weight.

“Nice,” says Boone, eyes glittering in the dark. Looks like Benny ain’t the only one who appreciates a guy with Legion blood all over him.

“I aim to please.” Benny’s sure Boone would show him up in a gunfight, but it’s nice to know he still has some useful skills.

Benny looks around while Boone dumps the body inside. The fort is quiet. Peaceful, even. He allows himself to think they may have a shot at this.

The two of them dart to the shadow of the nearest tent and wait, breathless, for more Legion to swarm out of the darkness and take a bunch of rippers to their faces. Nothing happens.

“How many at the gate?” Boone whispers.

“Never seen it at night,” Benny admits. “I’d guess four, plus whatever’s on the walls.” He’s spotted two men up there, but he assumes there are more his night vision ain’t keen enough to pick out.

“Five,” Boone says after the briefest of glances.

“Five? You’re sure?”

“Might be one more. Hard to tell.”

Great. So maybe ten sets of eyes on them. And there’s nothing they can do about the gunmen on the wall except run like hell and hope they’re all terrible shots.

“Wish I had a rifle,” Boone sighs.

“Wish I had Maria.” Benny ain’t a spectacular shot with that little pistol, but he’s good enough. He’d sure as hell be a lot more comfortable putting some distance between himself and all the people who are about to want to kill him. Because as quick as he is, he can’t knife all four guards before they catch wise.

“Ready?” Boone whispers.

“As I’ll ever be.”


End file.
